


When Worlds Collide

by LunaStorm



Series: Colliding Worlds [1]
Category: Final Fantasy VIII, Final Fantasy X, Final Fantasy X-2, Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Naruto
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-13
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-02-25 06:01:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 109,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2611067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaStorm/pseuds/LunaStorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the barriers between different realities blur and worlds so incredibly different are brought together that the Good is hard pressed to keep up with a united front from so many different Evils.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Dark…

…a sidereal cold…

…velvety darkness that was made of no shadows, for there are none in the Void…

…an abyss so timeless and infinite it has no meaning and is now, for anytime can be but now, and is here, for anyplace can be but here…

No time. Nowhere. Nothing.

And in the cold… in the dark… pinpoints of light.

Nuggets. Shards. Cold and with ragged edges and never frozen but ever-changing, multiform in their complex varying shapes, in their never stable colours.

Worlds…

Sometimes, a spark will zigzag from one pinpoint of light to another, and another, and another… connecting randomly worlds that do not touch…

…a web of worlds: shimmering, stabilizing, shimmering again, trembling and reforming.

Sometimes, this lucent webs last but for an instant, gleaming then fading.

Other times…

…other times the sparkling connection gets tangled on a shard and turns slowly, folding and unfolding, tearing and uniting, fusing and confusing and the shine twists and merges and swirls like a pearly, metaphysical milkshake.

And then firms.

Like this five-point star of worlds that are now growing closer, and closer, and closer, and will soon collide.

Worlds so incredibly different and yet so alike, composed of the same fundamental units, vibrating with the same frequency: same atmosphere, same life forms, just the odd little difference in how it all works here and there… worlds peculiarly suited to the establishment of a connection…

The collision of worlds happens silently, softly, with none of the grandiosity such a reality-altering effect might be expected to have, and with all the naturalness of a fortuitous event, a connection is indeed formed, a link that touches only three focal points on each world, three dots on the luminous shards…

...living anchors chosen by the inscrutable laws of probability…

On four of those worlds, it results in nothing more than inspiration for an imaginative novel, a sudden desire to sail the seas, or even just nightmares.

But on the fifth world… on the fifth world conditions are such that the randomly chosen living focuses are both able and willing to grab the offered chances.

Thus it begins…


	2. A Surge of Magic

The child was scrawny and lonely and miserable, and as far as he knew, he’d been so for all of his ten years of life.

The Sun was setting and darkness was falling fast but he was wandering aimlessly along the mostly deserted streets. His Aunt had thrown him out in a fit and he knew from bitter experience that going back too soon was a bad idea. It was much better to keep walking and watch the lights coming from behind the curtains, longingly imagining the families hidden there.

 

Suddenly, an incredibly weird feeling surged through him.

 

It was as if an invisible wall of water had splashed silently over him but he wasn’t wet, just- _galvanized_ , like being suddenly drenched with cold water would leave you: some strange form of energy was flowing all around him and through him, making his body vibrate, buzz, sting with the sensation. It was almost uncomfortable, like a milder version of the overall feeling of shock he’d had once after accidentally sticking his finger in a socket. Curious, he frowned and concentrated, trying to figure it out, and with a gasp he realized he could almost but not quite see a kaleidoscope of rushing dancing lights.

It felt… magical.

The child bit his bottom lip. There was no such thing as Magic. He knew that. He’d been told that countless times. But if… if…

There was no harm in trying, was there?... If, by chance, something like Magic could exist…

 

The child glanced quickly around, checking his surroundings warily. He was alone, good. He closed his eyes and _wished_ … wished with all his strength, with all his desperation, that Magic would exist and take him away, give him a better life, somewhere he was useful and wanted, someone to care for him…

 

The surge of power was reshaped…

* * *

The shredded soul was barely alive, mere shadow and vapour, clinging to existence with desperate stubbornness, bitter that it could not rise above this half-life, too terrified to let go.

 

Suddenly, an incredibly potent feeling surged through him.

 

It was amazing, springing up through his consciousness like a snake, with such force that its awareness was heightened to an insurmountable level: all of a sudden sounds were louder, colours were brighter and for the first time in years its thoughts and its perceptions were as clear as they used to be when he was still whole.

Even if currently weak, the split soul was still an incredible magic user and recognized the power surge instantly as a magical disturbance of some sort. Even in its state, he craved the power the storm offered with stark lucidity.

 

Avidly, he sought out the source, floating through the dizzying viscous power with greedy frenzy, hope rising violent in him that perhaps, at last, he’d found something better than rats to exploit. He closed his eyes and _willed_ … willed with all his might, with all the strength of his belief, his knowledge that Magic is essentially willpower, willed himself back to what he once was, to the height of his supremacy…

 

The surge of power was reshaped…

* * *

The old man gazed upon the children gathered in the majestic Hall for their evening meal, smiling in true joy at the sounds of chatting and laughter that warmed his heart.

 

Suddenly, an incredibly unsettling feeling surged through him.

 

It was as if a thin shaped film of… existence… possibilities… realities… was unobtrusively but unmistakably superimposed on everything for an instant or two, then ripped away. As if the world had tilted on its axis a bit, teetered for an excruciatingly long moment on the brink of toppling into change, then settled again….

He frowned, contemplating the odd occurrence. He was too well-learned to mistake it for anything but a wave of magical disturbance, the kind that unleashes wildly enough power to alter the very fabric of reality. He also knew how easily it would be to exploit it, for Wild Magic is an ever-moving energy, and like a mass of water, it needs to flow, so all one has to do is provide a course and it will pour through it, docile to the wielder’s will… but he didn’t dare use it… didn’t trust himself with such power… he’d proven, as a very young man,that power was his weakness and his temptation… he couldn’t afford such a responsibility…

 

All he could do was hope, with the tired, disillusioned hope of an old man who’d lived through two wars and was slowly preparing for a third, that its effects would not prove detrimental to the children in his care, that the residents of the castle would benefit from it rather than be harmed…

 

The surge of power was reshaped…


	3. A Brand New World

Harry was no longer scrawny and certainly no longer miserable, and he hadn’t been lonely for a good while now. He had a fulfilling and exciting life at last, people he cared about. He was happy.

It had been the best idea imaginable, to take a chance with the ‘Magic’.

When he’d opened his eyes again, right there in the middle of a darkened Surrey street, he had found a sort of hole hanging on mid-air, a roughly square-shaped see-through opening, like an invisible window that looked out on an entirely different place.

Another world!

Disbelieving and excited, he’d climbed cautiously through the weird window and found himself in a beautiful and otherworldly forest.

It had been night there as well and everything had been shades of blues: the enormous tree-trunks twining around one another, the soft soil under his feet, the graceful leaves and strange night-time flowers blooming. All had been unearthly beautiful. The trees had held huge bioluminescent spheres that emitted a soft, enthralling glow and everywhere he’d looked he could see small dots of light fluttering here and there like fireflies, leaving a sparkling trail in their wake till everything was glowing with small flickers of fluorescent colours.

It was so magical!

He’d barely noticed that the opening had closed seamlessly and noiselessly behind him. It’s not like he’d wanted to go back after all! Magic had granted his greatest wish.

Magic was real!

He would not, could not doubt it anymore. Everything in the mysterious, enchanting wood had spoken to him of magic, the very air had seemed impregnated with it: Harry could almost hear a faint, melodious hum that filled him with joy and peace. A sweet scent that permeated everything had wrapped comfortingly around him as he’d made his way in the welcoming wood.

The deeper he’d gone, the more he’d felt enthralled by the place. He’d breathed deeply, letting the wonder fill him until he’d burst out laughing in delight!

It was under the canopy of indigo leaves that he’d met O’aka XXIII.

Harry had been running happily and jumping to catch the fluorescent fireflies, all the while laughing loudly and freely for maybe the first time in his life, when he’d slipped down a winding branch thicker than his waist, landing in a campsite next to a beautiful spring.

A man, friendly-looking but dressed so weirdly Harry had had to stifle his giggles – sandals that tied up on his calves and an unusual tiny jacket and the oddest little hat tied atop his head with a string! – had almost choked on the bread he was eating at his sudden appearance.

The look of shock on the poor man’s face had been hilarious!

But he was an easy-going fellow and had quickly started laughing with Harry at the strange meeting: “Oooh, and what do we have here, now? Hey, lad, lemme see ye!”

Harry had giggled again at his accent: he sounded just like the plumber who’d moved to Little Whinging from East London some time ago and helped out with the maintenance at Harry’s school.

The man had introduced himself as: “O'aka XXIII, merchant _extraordinaire_!” He’d even jumped up and made a funny bow and Harry had laughed nicely and made a ridiculous bow back: “I’m Harry!” he’d chirped.

“Ye be needin' something, lad? I'm always open for business!” had asked the man excitedly, showing off all his weird merchandise.

Harry had been completely fascinated by all the odd things he kept in his giant rucksack (and how did he lift it, he'd wondered?) as well as all his bags and satchels; but he didn’t know what half those things were, much less if he wanted them; and anyway, he didn’t have any money.

O’aka had sighed in disappointment, saying comically: “Eh, it figures…”

Then Harry’s eyes had gone round when O’aka had invited him to have some dinner! He’d never tasted anything that good. And while they ate, the odd man had chatted kindly, explaining a good deal about this strange new world.

He’d told Harry that they were in the Macalania Woods, a junction point for several other locations: “They’s connected to the Thunder Plains down south – not a good place, them lands, nobody likes to go there, ‘cause of all the lightnin’ strikes… ye know what they say: 'Plains of lightning, plains of thunder, those who cross are torn asunder' - and ye can't run a trade with no customers! So I’ve no business there, see?”

He’d gestured wildly in his dismay, making Harry grin.

“Then off to the west is Bevelle – been there a few times, strange place… the Heart of Spira, they say! Sure are a lot of ‘em New Yevon guys about these days. And lemme tell ye, they like to keep their secrets… same as the old Yevon Church!”

He’d shaken his head sagely. “Makes me wonder what they're up to, it does - but best not go asking, if ye get my meaning…“

Harry’s eyes had lit with interest.

“And to the east there’s ‘em Calm Lands – now them’s a good place for business!” had gone on O’aka, perking up at the mere idea. “ 'Specially now, what with everything…”

Then he’d gone straight from vibrant to depressed: “So I thought, thought I, people are bound to come throu’ here, right? These woods bein’ so central and everything? And with the Eternal Calm, now, I thought it’d be an excellent investment!...” He’d shaken his head sadly.

“What?” had asked Harry, scrunching up his nose in confusion.

“Why, the Travel Agency, lad! What else? Rin's Travel Agency! It used to be by the frozen Lake, back when the Macalania Temple was still there – a magnificent ice palace, ye know, beautiful! Quite beautiful! But now it’s not there no more!” he’d concluded tragically. “Curse that Rin for selling me the place when it wasn’t good no more!”

Harry was riveted: “Why not? What happened?”

“Sank,” had explained O’aka miserably. “To the bottom o’ the lake, no less. So then I got no more customers to sell to, and no money to pay the Al Bhed for the agency. Ooh… I was in a big trouble!” He’d shuddered dramatically before brightening up: “ 'Course, Lady Yuna saved me!”

Harry had smiled, amused by all the mood changes: “And who’s Lady Yuna?”

“What!?” had cried O’aka dramatically. “Ye don’ know…!”

And he’d promptly launched into a convoluted explanation, which Harry had had to stop quite soon because he couldn’t follow: “Wait, wait! What’s this Sin?”

O’aka’s eyes had widened comically: “Ye… ye don’t… where are ye from, lad?!? Nobody don’t know ‘bout Sin!!! I think my mom told me brother and me stories about it when we was real little - because I can't remember never not knowing about it, ye know?"

It was Harry’s time to widen his eyes in surprise.

O’aka had tapped his chin with two fingers thoughtfully: “Alright, lemme see… Sin is – was – a great big whopping monster, ye know? Wait, I’ve got something to show ye here somewhere… found it laying ‘round and ev’rything…”

He’d jumped up and started rummaging through his huge rucksack, stuffing his head and shoulders in to better look for the promised item and almost falling into it, much to Harry’s giggled amusement, but in the end, he’d triumphantly re-emerged, holding out a sort of glowing little ball that, to Harry, looked like round water imprisoning a swirling flame.

O’aka had quickly explained to the fascinated boy that it was a Sphere, a kind of recording device where you could store voice record, video, memories or useful information if you knew how to do it, and that there were thousands of forgotten Spheres all over the world.

“Usually it’s the Sphere Hunters who get them, but this one I found meself!” he’d told Harry smugly.

When he’d activated it, Harry had seen a brief, poorly shot movie, full of static and that had to have been taken by someone who was trembling badly. It showed a sort of huge, dark… _thing_. It was moving very slowly. Harry’d thought that some parts of it looked kinda like big fish fins but he couldn’t be sure, and then the Sphere had been over.

“Scary, huh?” had asked O’aka, looking very proud of himself. “ 'Course, ‘tis just a Sphere, ye can’t get any feel to it – ‘cause, Sin was so big that when you see only part of it, it looks like a great blob, ye know?"

“How big?” had asked Harry, completely fascinated.

The question had seemed to throw O’aka: “Dunno. Never given it much of a though, really. It's Sin, ye know. It's just… so big!” and he’d waved his arms madly to drive his point home.

“Wow.”

“Anyway, it existed for a thousand years or more, ye know...”

Thus had started Harry’s education on the history of this new world, which, he’d discovered, was called Spira.

It was terrifying and amazing at the same time. Harry had listened with rapt attention and hadn’t known where to start asking questions. Sin, whatever that was, or had been, monsters and fiends and spawns, Al Bhed and machina, whatever they were, a place called Zanarkand (and wasn’t that a great name? It sounded totally cool!) Guardians and Summoners…

“Summoners? What are those?”

He didn’t even know why that was the question he’d blurted out first, in the end, but it was okay. It was what had caught his attention the most after all.

O’aka had goggled at him, but then he’d shrugged off his odd ignorance and started nodding vigorously: “Yeah, yeah! Summoners, they're the ones who defeat Sin. They go – used to, really – to this pilgrimage, all around the world, with their Guardians, they got into the Temples and got all the Aeons - that is, the creatures they summon, ye know. And then they went to the ruins of Zanarkand and then… then they defeated Sin. Well some did. Not all managed… But when one did, then we’d get a Calm. For a while. I remember… I was just a wee lad when High Summoner Braska defeated Sin. Ye wouldn’t believe how it was afterwards! The parties! The fun! Not a single word about Sin, no attack, no fear, ye could go anywhere, nothing to worry about! And everybody was so happy… lasted over a year, it did!”

“Why only a year? What happened after?” Harry had felt confused. If the hero had defeated the monster, shouldn’t things have been okay? That was how stories were supposed to go!

“Well, then Sin came back, didn’t it? It always did. And then another Summoner had to go and do their thing but not many were able to, ye know? Sometimes it was years before it all happened again...”

“Again?” had asked Harry bemused.

“It… well… ‘twas like a cycle, lad… first Sin, then a Summoner would defeat it, and we’d get a Calm, and then Sin again,” O’aka had nodded sagely, “until another Summoner defeated it again, ye know. And that could take years…”

“But why? If Summoners can defeat Sin - why don't they do it right after the Calm ends? So there’s always a Calm?"

O’aka had given him a sad look: “When Summoners went to pilgrimages to defeat Sin - they died, if they actually did it. Not everybody could… not everybody wanted to – some chickened out before the last stop… can’t blame ‘em, all in all. I don't think I've ever heard of a High Summoner who survived after defeating Sin – ‘cept Lady Yuna, ye know?”

Harry had been lost in the story. To imagine… A Summoner had to sacrifice his or her life to defeat Sin, and give everybody peace and happiness… and then, a year or two later, Sin was back, and another Summoner had to go through the whole thing and die. Again and again… How could they do it? He didn’t think he would have the courage to die just for a few years of Calm! How could they think it was worth it? And what was Sin anyway? How could you defeat something - only to have it return after a year or so?

“We were used to it, see?” O’aka had interrupted his wonderings. “Sometimes there was a Calm, and we all enjoyed it. Then Sin’d come back and the fear with it. Once a month you’d hear that Sin'd attacked this ship or this village or whatever," O’aka had shrugged his shoulders, as if it was all normal. “Or you’d see it here and there – creepy, it was. Real creepy... Whenever I’d be in a town and anyone so much as whispered that Sin was close by, it was panic. Madness! Ye never knew when and where Sin’d attack - if he was seen close by, ye'd better run!”

“Were you ever attacked?” had asked Harry, eyes wide with fright. A terrible monster that kept coming back again and again… it had seemed almost impossible, there in the magical atmosphere of the indigo woods. It had chilled him, to think that such a lovely place could hide so monstrous a danger.

"Couple of times,” O’aka had shrugged it off with nonchalance. “It was scary as hell, ye know. It was just hanging there, in the air, and I really thought it would just drop down and crush everything, including me."

“And Sin just… attacks? Like, at random?” Harry had asked, seriously worried.

“Don’t ye worry no more, lad. Lady Yuna took right care of it! She ain’t High Summoner for nothing, ye know!”

“But you said it always comes back!” had cried Harry, upset.

“No, it doesn’t! Not anymore! ‘Cause Lady Yuna is totally awesome!” had retorted O’aka triumphantly. “She defeated it for good! And now we have an Eternal Calm! No more Sin! Forever and ever! Spira is finally free!”

Harry’s mouth had opened in amazement: “How did she do it?” he’d asked in wonder.

But O’aka hadn’t known, not really. He’d just waved his arms madly and gone on to talk of how Lady Yuna’d always been kind to him and how they’d met several times, before and after the Eternal Calm started.

Though he’d also told Harry everything that was common knowledge – like how the Church of Yevon had attacked Lady Yuna when she’d exposed their evil ways. Per-se-co-lu-ting her (Harry’d had to ask O’aka to explain that word, because he’d never heard it before): “They branded her a heretic! A traitor! Hah! Them’s the traitors, says I! And I was right! In the end, them Yevonites were shown for what they were – Corrupt! Liars! Frauds!” He’d waved his fist menacingly. “O’aka knew it all along! Lady Yuna's the best of the best, she is – she couldn’t be wrong! And O’aka’s always been a friend to Lady Yuna!” He’d nodded emphatically, a determined scowl on his face.

Harry had smiled. He liked the strange man – and he liked Lady Yuna too. She was like a princess in a fairy tale, beautiful and brave and everything, fighting against the monster and the evil guys with her friends and triumphing after a lot of cool adventures.

“And now everybody knows it too, don’t they? She’s quite popular these days, eh?” O’aka had chuckled, suddenly back to being lively and merry. “Course, I helped her, ye know! Sold her some real good stuff… ‘cause I’m O’aka XXIII, Merchant Extraordinaire!”

Harry had laughed at that, but he’d still been wrapped up in the tale. It was fascinating… he couldn't wait to learn more. “But where did Sin come from?”

“Don’t rightly know, lad… I reckon nobody does… ‘cause, ye know, those Yevon priests… they told us Sin came to be because long ago, we made machina and did horrible things with them, but… I’m not so sure they knew what they was talkin' about. We got some machina now, more and more all the time really, and nothing bad’s happenin'…”

Harry had scrunched up his nose and nodded thoughtfully: “So it must have been something else that made it come…”

“Ah, well… who cares? Sin's just always been there. Maybe it's because of machina and stuff, or maybe it was there just… because it was there. I'm no Summoner, so, what do I know, right?" O’aka had laughed softly. “The important thing is that it’s not there no more!”

Harry had nodded fervently at that.

In time, Harry had found out that O’aka loved to tell stories and having travelled all over Spira so much, he knew many, many tales.

Some stories were cute, like the one of little Benzo, the only boy known to understand the strange language of the Cactuars.

Harry thought that it was a shame that O’aka refused to go to Bikanel Desert, because he would have loved to meet the intelligent cacti that protected the region. And Benzo himself, who O’aka had told him was his same age. Unfortunately, the vendor was too scared of the Al Bhed who ran the excavation enterprise. Apparently, they had threatened to make him work there to repay his debt! Though he told Harry that if he wanted to go there on his own, when he grew up a bit, he could. “Maybe ye’ll find out why all Al Bhed kids wear full body suits! Them’s fascinating clothes, to be sure, but no-one knows what them’s for! Ye could try and ask, eh?”

Other stories were funny, like those involving Tobli and his Hypello assistants.

O’aka and Tobli had met and bonded over the un-reasonability of their Al Bhed shareholders and become good friends over their common determination to avoid paying their bills, so the merchant had a number of tales about his highly-excitable buddy. Harry had a grand time imagining the diminutive stage producer zooming around in a hijacked Al Bhed machina hover and then crashing it into a billboard near the Moonflow, or roping a group of highly strung children into running all over the place shouting a promotional slogan for his latest show at the top of their lungs.

There were also stories that were terrible, like the tale of Omega, a traitor to Yevon who was banished to a small group of islands and slowly went mad being imprisoned in the maze-like dark passages, until his hatred for Yevon grew so strong it turned him into a fiend. Harry shivered at the mere idea of being trapped in isolation like that – he knew a little what it was like and wouldn’t wish years and years of it on anyone.

And yet more stories were or full of actions and sadness, like the numerous tales about the Crusaders, who had been fighting to defeat Sin for as long as anyone could remember, but never managed.

O’aka had told him repeatedly that they were pretty awesome anyway: “They were the only ones who could sort of hold Sin at bay – that’s why we could still have Blitzball games in Luca!” Once Harry’d had a chance to see a match of the wildly adored aquatic ball sport, he’d agreed that that was an awesome accomplishment indeed. Blitzball had quickly become his favourite sport – just like for everybody in Spira, it seemed.

Despite everything, Harry’s favourite remained the tale he’d heard that first night, of Lady Yuna’s pilgrimage and Sin’s defeat, however.

It was too amazing for words. It had everything: a dangerous quest to save a fantasy world, which was all the more awesome for being real, a monstrous whale-like horror to defeat, those priests that pretended to be good but were really enemies, a group of cool adventurers that O’aka could tell him a lot about because he’d actually met them, so it was almost like Harry himself had known the engagingly grim Warrior Monk, the stoically ironic but well-meaning Black Mage with her devout and funny not-quite-boyfriend, the chirpily perky Al Bhed with her love of machina, the silently strong Ronso warrior and the Blitzball star Lady Yuna had fallen in love with… and most of all, Lady Yuna herself, a totally great heroine, towards whom Harry was quickly developing a bad case of idol-worship!

And they had so many adventures! Even if O’aka didn’t know everything and sometimes made things up, it was still wondrous. Harry never got tired of listening to it and thankfully, O’aka never grew bored of telling it!

That first night however they’d just chatted a bit more, O’aka finally getting around to question Harry about his own life. The boy hadn’t said much. As far as he was concerned, there wasn’t much to tell after all and most importantly, he was clinging to the hope that there wouldn’t be anything to tell ever again – not about his ‘relatives’, not about his former ‘home’.

In an effort to distract O’aka from his unwanted line of questioning, Harry had changed the topic asking: “So what are you doing here again, if the Temple has sunk like you said?”

“Ah!” had brightened O’aka. “See, here’s the thing!” He’d rubbed his hands happily: “I’m going to save the Travel Agency! And then I’m going to get a friend of mine to do a show here! I’ll make tons of money then, on account of this place becoming famous…”

“How?” had asked Harry, very interested.

“Well, ye know,” had started O’aka, “Lady Yuna and her friends, the Gullwings, helped me out again! Stowed me away on their ship, they did! So those Al Bhed wouldn’t find me… bought all me merchandise too, so I could pay me debts. Cool, eh? So now I’m in the clear again! No debts. Problem is, all these rumours say that the wood is dying… that’s no good for business!”

Harry hadn’t believed that for one moment. There was too much life, too much magic in Macalania to think of it fading. He’d told O’aka as much and the man had been overjoyed: “Knew it!!” he’d cried, and had promptly started muttering about taking the boy to meet the exiled Guado, “to tell’em fools too!”

Since Harry hadn’t had anything else to do anyway, he’d gladly agreed to help the merchant out and over the next days, he’d been dragged along around the woods to ‘support’ O’aka’s attempt at saving his shop.

The Guado people that the vendor had mentioned the first night had turned out to be – to Harry’s shock – not human at all, but rather a plant-like humanoid race, with wooden-looking skin and overlarge hands that resembled branches. Harry was a bit grossed out by the prominent veins on their faces, but he could admit that their green flowerish hair were cool. Too bad their attitude was anything but.

O’aka had explained to a more and more confused Harry that they’d dwelled in a city of their own once, carved through the roots of giant trees, where they had been the protectors of Spira's Farplane and made a living out of the fact that they were the only ones who could make it safe for living visitors (not that Harry had known what the Farplane was… in fact, the whole concept had remained rather fuzzy in his mind even after several explanations, until he’d had a chance to see for himself.)

It had been clear from the start, anyway, that the vendor didn’t think much of them. In fact, O’aka had told Harry, with an uncharacteristic frown: “I tell ye, these Guado merchants are shrewd! Rippin' off the pilgrims that went to visit the Farplane – that’s how they got their living! Then they were chased away from their underground city and now they’re here and don’t know what to do with themselves! But they’re not to be trusted – I tell ye, they’s not changed. Them’s trying to get our pity, but… they’s still as arrogant, always lookin’ down on us other races! But they ain’t anything special in the end. Listen, ye watch that they don't get ye, too!”

Harry hadn’t liked them much either. One of them had tried to explain to him that they’d sought refuge in these woods because they were spiritually connected to them, and that they and the woods were fading away together because of that. Harry had felt almost offended on behalf of the beautiful woods.

He also had some trouble understanding why the Guado were content to die - along with the forest - for their supposed ‘sins’. Just because Lady Yuna’s enemy, the evil Maester Seymour Guado, had done horrible things and now that Sin had been defeated, many people sought vengeance for his crimes and blamed all of them by association? He just didn’t understand. In his opinion, they should go out and fight to convince everybody that they weren’t all evil!

But it was no use trying to talk some sense into them. They were miserable and lonely, pathetically repeating that they would die when the forest disappeared, due to the fayth at Macalania Temple fading away, and bemoaning how sad it all was, but without doing anything to stop it.

O’aka had told him quite clearly: “’Tis no skin off me nose if them’s killed or what. I just want ‘em to stop being so depressing ‘bout the woods dying!” His basic idea was to get the Guado to stay hidden in the woods and not interfere with the show he wanted to organize: “They’re goin’ to scare customers away if they’re bein’ so gloomy all over the place!” he’d complained.

Between O’aka’s stubbornness and the Guado’s tendency to apathy, they’d soon reached an agreement and Harry had been the only one not really happy about it, but at the end of the day, it was the Guado’s choice what to do with their lives, he supposed.

Then had come the time to round up the three races of Musicians, ancestral protectors of Macalania: a tall, blue-colored bird-like one with a harp, a short one with something that looked like a trumpet but more curvy and a rotund race with big drums. Chasing them down and convincing them to play nearby the frozen lake had been fun, even if Harry found their music rather dull.

Tobli the stage producer had made up for it with his overwhelming enthusiasm, anyway. He’d descended on the Macalania lake like a tornado, his blue Hypello assistants in tow, and whipped the whole place in a frenzy, apparently all by himself. Harry had found it irresistible how incredibly fast he talked and had driven O’aka mad adding "Yup-Yup" to the end of his sentences for over a week.

Tobli was also responsible for a heightening of Harry’s quickly developing case of heroine-worship toward Lady Yuna. The hyper chap had kept bemoaning the fact that her great success was making it hard to organize another show at the same level. Naturally, the boy had demanded the whole story and as the stage producer was incredibly proud that the Gullwings had asked _him_ to help with their idea to lift the spirits of the people of Spira, he’d willingly told the tale.

Thus Harry had found out that Lady Yuna could _also_ sing wonderfully – in fact, she was so good that everybody who’d listened to her had felt their spirit soar. Not only that: even the endless storm across the Thunder Plains had stopped for her! For the first time ever, those barren lands had seen the sun, and it was all thanks to Lady Yuna! How awesome was that?

Harry had pestered O’aka a good deal to obtain a Sphere of the concert and when he’d finally got his hands on one, at the Sphere Theatre in Luca, (not an easy task because apparently, everybody wanted a copy) he had ended up learning the song by heart, so many times he’d played the Sphere!

Meanwhile, anyway, the show had gone on and a surprising number of people had turned up from all over Spira for the event. O’aka had been walking on air, and so had Tobli. It had been a great success!

The only sad thing was that the Gullwings couldn’t be there, because they were off fighting some monster or other somewhere (nobody was clear on the details, except for the general knowledge that they’d answered a help call from an Al Bhed). Harry had pouted at the missed opportunity of meeting his idol, but consoled himself thinking that there would be other chances.

Of course, everybody had gone away after the concert: the place wasn’t very good for living after all; the important thing was that the word had started spreading that the shop in Macalania was up and running and had a cool inventory, so they could expect business to pick up again. Now if only that mess with the Guado and Ronso people would be resolved… but that was someone else’s problem, after all.

During the clean up after the concert O’aka’s younger brother, Wantz, had showed up unexpectedly, complaining that the merchant had opened the store again, “without even tellin’ me! Why, I only left back then ‘cause my job was bound to fail, what with the Temple being gone!”

O’aka had been all ready for a spat, but after bickering for a while, they’d come to the conclusion that it was best to combine their inventories. Wantz, especially, had been excited at the idea: “Why, our store’s goin’ to be the best on Spira! People’ll pay any price for our stuff!”

That had been convenient, because once the excitement over getting the shop going again had died down, O’aka had grown restless. Being a travelling merchant was in his blood. He’d told Harry: “Makin’ gil is all very well and good, lad, but I miss the excitement, ye know? Besides, how’re we goin’ to keep our store at the top if we don’t get good stuff to sell?”

So he had decided to leave his brother to handle things at Macalania and be off.

“And what ‘bout ye, lad? Ye stayin’ or comin’ with me?”

Harry had had no doubts whatsoever. He loved the ever-nightly woods and often he wished to return there, seeking the faint magical hum and the serene beauty of Macalania, but the lure of journeying around the world, seeing amazing things and having adventures, was irresistible.

So he’d gone with O’aka. And oh, how wonderful it had been to explore this brand new, exciting world!

He’d also come to enjoy O’aka’s weird way of taking care of him. The travelling merchant didn’t order him about or insist on strict rules, but he took the time to show him and explain plants and fiends, foods and items as they met them and always made a point to stop at important historical or artistic places, so that Harry would learn about the history and customs of Spira: he was forever telling him a story or clarifying something they’d seen and was careful to warn him of the many dangers the world presented and teach him how to look after himself.

The thing that Harry was most grateful for, however, was that he’d given him brand new clothes.

The poor merchant had been dismayed when he’d inspected the boy’s rags: “Yewh! Filthy, filthy!” he’d cried comically. “These won't sell or me name's not O'aka!” And that had been the end of Dudley’s horrible cast-offs, because to Harry’s delight, the man had burnt them on the spot.

Now Harry ran around in a cool outfit of a deep blue colour (“ ’Tis called cerulean, lad! The colour of the sea! Ladies love it, ye’ll see!”): a pair of comfy trousers and a loose shirt, both made of a strange fabric, different from any Aunt Petunia had ever made him wash, soft and velvety but very sturdy, with many dyed leather strings crisscrossing over the shoulders and down the arms.

O’aka had given it to him along with strict instructions of “finding what ye’ll need to personalize it on your own, lad.” Harry hadn’t been sure what he meant by it at first, but the more people he saw, the more he realized that most of them took great care in festooning little bits of weird stuff on their base clothes. Many people were also willing to tell him how they’d found or been given this or that ribbon or accessory and Harry had come to understand that their clothes represented their personal history and the friends they’d made in life. It was a fun way to make their look unique.

Little by little, he too had added to his outfit: now he had a belt of woven cord, several coloured bands of threads and yarn decorated his wrists and he wore a black hair-band he’d bartered for in Luca, with the fiery Gullwings emblem on it, to which he pinned or tied small coins, little shiny rocks, odd-looking bones or whatever struck his fancy.

He loved it.

The only thing left from his life ‘before’ were his battered glasses, but as he couldn’t see much without, there wasn’t anything he could do about it. At least a man they’d met on the road had taught him how to repair them with iron wire instead of the non-existent tape or the unreliable wool threads, and then a pair of gloomy but skilled twins had shown him how to dye it with vinegar until the glasses turned brownish-orange. That way they looked suitably odd, at least!

The morning when they’d first set off, O’aka had wondered aloud where to take Harry first, pacing back and forth outside his brother’s store while the boy bounced impatiently in place, and finally declared: “Listen to me, lad! Best place to start learning how to travel is the Calm Lands! Off we go!”

Thus they’d turned their steps to the bright green grassy plains, where the sky was always sunny blue and a soft clean breeze brushed the landscape stretching gently in every direction.

It hadn’t taken long before they got lost – the plains looked about the same everywhere – but it hadn’t mattered either. It was easy to find other travellers equally gone astray and everybody just chuckled together over it: "People always get lost here – good thing the place is so pleasant!”

And pleasant it was indeed.

Of course, O’aka hadn’t wasted any time in branching off into a new business venture and in a matter of days, every meeting had turned into an attempt at hooking new customers: “O'aka XXIII, Merchant Extraordinaire, at your service! You wanna buy something? Maps, compasses, potions, gear, tents! Anything you need to cross the Calm Lands, I have it right here!”

But mostly they just enjoyed their time together and chatted about everything and anything, or even simply lay down on the fresh, sweet-scented grass, soaking up the sun.

That had led Harry to his first meeting with the Chocobos – the most lovable creatures on all of Spira, in his opinion. A meeting that had taken the form of a sharp tug on his hair, one day while he was dozing off and contentedly watching the clouds chase each other in the cobalt blue sky, while O’aka snored nearby.

Feeling too comfortable to be annoyed at being bothered, he’d simply lifted his head from the bright green grass and then he’d blinked in astonishment at seeing a pair of sharp talons just beside him, above which a bright expanse of yellow feathers was bobbing, bowing a cute chick head to tug on his hair again.

"Oi," Harry had said amused, tugging back before waving his arm at the creature. "Just what are ye, birdie?”

To his surprise, the bird had answered, but unfortunately it had been just a strange "kweh" sound, at which Harry had burst out laughing: “Ye’re too cute!”

The strange bird had seemed to like his laugh and had made the “kweh” sound again, then butted its great dark orange beak against his waving hand amicably.

Harry had laughed again: "Ye're a friendly fella, aren't ye?" he’d asked, without even noticing that he’d started to imitate O’aka’s speech patterns.

The bird had warbled some more, and then cooed delightedly as he scratched the underside of its chin.

That had been the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

It had turned out (when O’aka had finally awoken enough to explain) that the bird was a chocobo and that they were pretty common. It was about as big as a horse and its wings were stunted – O’aka had made it clear that it could never fly, much to Harry’s disappointment – but its well-developed legs allowed it to run almost as fast as the Road Runner in Dudley’s cartoons, as Harry had discovered to his great delight.

There was nothing better than speeding along through the landscape of grassy fields at amazing speed, the wind rushing around him, exhilarated and free, feeling the blood sing in his veins.

Better still, when he was riding the chocobo none of the wild fiends attacked him – it seemed they steered clear of the bright yellow birds; and that meant that O’aka let him go off with his new friend often enough, to have fun and explore to his heart’s content, as long as he was back with the merchant by sundown.

In fact, the man even managed to make the most of it: he was a Trader after all, from a line of Traders. As soon as he’d realized the potential in Harry’s having a chocobo to rely on, he’d tasked him with finding stuff to sell!

“Tell ye what; everybody knows that Gysahl Greens are a chocobo's favorite food, so they’s good at finding ‘em, I reckon. And them’s good for selling, ye know. Ye and yer yellow friend can go lookin’ for them herbs and every time ye get some for me, I’ll give you something of my inventory in exchange! That way ye can start yer own trade sooner or later! How’s that?”

“Awesome!” had been Harry’s excited response.

The chocobo (whom Harry had named Sky Runner because, as he’d explained to a bemused O’aka with unfailing logic, it was way more cool than Road Runner – not that the perplexed merchant had understood the reference) was surprisingly intelligent, flapping his stunted wings excitedly and warbling at Harry or head-butting him lightly to communicate. From time to time he let out another loud ‘kweh!’ and the boy had soon learned to interpret it as delight.

Harry for his part loved to wrap his arms around his new friend’s head, digging his fingers into the soft feathers and scratching, breathing in his nice, warm smell. He was happy the chocobo had apparently decided to adopt him and barely left his side even when he walked rather than riding, only running a little ahead at times and then returning to head-butt him or demand a scratch before running ahead again.

His excited warbling kept him entertained and he took to answer as if the creature was actually talking to him. O’aka laughed himself silly every time, but Harry wasn’t fazed.

Often while they travelled through the Calm Lands, collecting stuff for O’aka’s trade or running around for the hell of it, they’d spotted other yellow birds who were idly clawing at the ground or eating the grass and in the end, in one of their wild runs, Harry and Sky Runner had happened upon Clasko’s ranch.

Sky Runner had immediately started kwehing and warbling, to which several others chocobos in a pen had warbled and kwehed back in greeting, attracting the young man with bowl-cut dark hair and a somewhat uncomfortable air. He’d been very surprised at seeing the pair, but not unhappy, and while Sky Runner had stayed out and made friends with the other chocobos, Harry had been led through the caves where Clasko ran his chocobo breeding program and shown around with a mixture of pride and embarrassment.

Oblivious to his new acquaintance’s discomfort, he’d bombarded the poor man with questions, enthralled by everything he’d seen.

Clasko had been rather shy at first, but eventually, as they’d been making their way back outside after Harry had cooed and aahed over the baby chocobos in the nests inside, he had found the courage to ask about the boy’s chocobo friend: “He’s tame, isn't he?"

Harry had been rather perplexed at the question: “Well, he’s my friend.”

“But how did he end up with you? Did someone give him to you? Is someone else breeding chocobo?” had asked Clasko, unable to hide his anxiety.

Harry had frowned, glancing over to where Sky Running was ducking out of the way of two other chocobos pursuing him and flapping his wings threateningly at them, even while warbling excitedly like it was just a game. Harry’d reflected that it probably was. "I don't know, sir. He found me out in the plains and just started following me. We have a lot of fun together," he’d told Clasko, a bit defensively.

The man had smiled faintly: “I do not doubt it. But… do you mean to say that a chocobo just up and started following you? What did you do - lure him with greens?"

Harry had perked up: “The Gysahl Greens, ye mean? I’m s’posed to find some. Do ye know where I could…?”

“I can give you some,” had allowed Clasko. “But I would really like to know how you did it.”

Harry’d shrugged, unsure how to explain: "It just sort of happened."

Clasko had goggled at him, floored, but eventually he’d shrugged: “Ah, well. Maybe he used to be tame at some point or something. Some of the chocobos of these plains are like that, anyway – they grow easily fond of humans, if you're lucky enough to befriend one.”

Harry had smiled brightly.

“Still, if you’re that good with wild chocobos, I was wondering… would you like to stay around and lend a hand? I could use some help here in the ranch!”

Harry’s mouth had opened in shock at the proposal, but he’d soon started to bounce around excitedly: “Can I help taking care of the baby chocobos? Can I? Pleeaasee…!”

From then on, he’d taken to show up rather regularly at the Chocobo Ranch, getting Gysahl Greens as payment for his work – enthusiastically doing easy chores like mucking the stalls, feeding and watering the chocobos, and sometimes even assisting Clasko with applying meds when a bird got hurt – and learning tons in the meanwhile.

And not only about chocobos, either. Clasko wasn’t as good a storyteller as O’aka, but Harry’d soon enough cajoled him into recounting his days as a Chocobo Knight over their shared meals.

“I didn’t like it much there,” had admitted Clasko after Harry had seemed disappointed that his friend was no longer one of the elite soldiers who mounted chocobos. “I spent much of my time being ordered around.” He’d smiled faintly. “Even when we tried to join the Youth League, after the Eternal Calm started, nothing changed… my friends Lucil and Elma rose quickly to the positions of command but I just remained low in the ranks. I guess it wasn’t for me…” He’d shrugged. “I never liked fighting either. Just did it because it seemed to be my duty, I guess.”

“So how did you decide to start all this?” had asked Harry curiously.

“I suppose the idea came to me back in the days, even if I didn’t feel confident that I’d ever manage. After Operation…” he’d chocked on the word, and Harry had felt uncomfortable, realizing that whatever he was thinking about, it was paining him. But Clasko had shaken his head determinedly: “Never mind; after a particularly bad moment in my life, most of our chocobos had died and I started thinking, wouldn’t it be better to have tame chocobos ready instead of having to replace those we lost with wild ones and train them from scratch?”

He’d looked out in the distance for a while and then offered Harry his little, sad smile: “So in the end, I hunted down this place, got some help to free it from all the nesting fiends that had overrun it, and set up my Chocobo Ranch. At first I thought that maybe I could do a bit of both, raising chocobos and still helping out the Knights, but… I like this job so much that I just gave up on Lucil’s corps altogether. I’m much happier now!”

“What happened to your friends from the Chocobo Knights?”

“Lucil’s working hard with the Youth League. I don’t know much of what they do, but I think it’s what she’s always wanted. Elma’s been around a few times. She wants to reorganize the mounted Chocobo Knights… I’ve told her I’m not interested, but maybe I’ll give her some of my birds… of course, I don’t have any Destriers, only Coursers… but maybe, with some specific training they might be able to bear the weight of heavy armour and withstand the shock of cavalry charges… I wish I knew how they bred them back when the Chocobo Knights were active combat units, some twenty years ago!”

Predictably, it hadn’t taken long for O’aka to find out what his young friend was doing when he went off on his own and how he got so much Gysahl Greens. Harry had excitedly told him all about the Chocobo Ranch as soon as the man had thought to ask.

To the boy’s surprise, O’aka had looked less than pleased and pouted unhappily, demanding to be shown “this shrewd fella o’ yers”. He’d been rather rude to the poor former-Knight, too, when he’d finally met him, accusing a bewildered Clasko of all sorts of nefarious purposes for his “invading the lad’s life”.

Harry had been rather unsure what it was all about, until he’d realized that O’aka had been… jealous?

The concept had awed him. No-one had ever cared about having him around before! Just the opposite, in fact. Now Clasko needed him for the ranch and O’aka didn’t want to lose him. How awesome was it?

On the heels of the happy insight had come the realization that two of his very first friends ever were at odds with each other and that had brought him a new apprehension. He didn’t want that! And he didn’t want it to be his fault!

So he’d whispered a suggestion into Clasko’s ear that he just knew would win O’aka over and the young man, who had been floored at the hostility and unable to do more than babble at the belligerent vendor, had seized the advice gratefully: “Perhaps,” he’d said a little awkwardly, “I could become an investor? My chocobos can be sent on errands to find treasures and other items, and then you could resell them, and just give me a percentage…”

Harry, who’d come to know O’aka pretty well, had giggled silently at his dumbfounded expression and counted in his mind: ‘One, two…’

Before he’d reached ‘three’, O’aka had burst in exhilarated thanks, his ire nicely derailed: “Huh? You're really gonna give me Gil? Well, ye aren’t such a bad chap after all. Thank ye kindly! I'll be sure to pay ye back! Heh! Good idea this of usin’ yer birdies. Now let’s talk percentages…”

Once they’d worked out all the details of the new business, a much mellower O’aka had set the three of them down around Clasko’s table to discuss Harry’s situation: “The lad can’t very well run back and forth from yer ranch if he’s on the road with me, now can he?” he’d said reasonably. “ ’Specially since I’m leaving the Calm Lands in a couple weeks…”

Harry had been torn.

On the one hand, he’d come to like travelling with O’aka a lot. He was a lively, funny companion and he took care of Harry like no-one else ever had. Plus, journeying was great and the vendor had promised to show him all the wonders of Spira, which Harry couldn’t wait to experience.

On the other hand, he loved chocobos. And it felt good to be needed. Clasko valued his help and it made him feel important. Not to mention, Sky Runner absolutely adored the ranch.

And on top of everything, Harry was still completely overwhelmed by the mere idea of someone wanting him around and he didn’t want to make either of his friends sad. Not for anything!

But what to do?

In the end, they’d come to an agreement that had Harry bounce with joy. He’d stay with Clasko for a couple months, learning all about chocobos, then O’aka would drop by and take him around the world to some cool place, then he’d be back again for another two months at the ranch and then off again…

And Sky Runner would be able to stay with Clasko year-round, so Harry and O’aka could go visit places too cold or too crowded for the chocobo without worry!

It was perfect!

O’aka had left soon after with a merry: “I’ll be back in six weeks. Call me if you need something, lad!”

Sky Runner had kweh-ed loudly and Harry had felt inclined to do the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About the matter of languages.   
> The merging of worlds has synchronized the language of the foci on each world. Thus, the Al Bhed actually have a recognizably different language, while Spira’s Common sounds like English and viceversa… same goes for the other worlds touched by the magic.


	4. Safe and Wanted

So Harry’s life on Spira had gone on happily.

When he stayed with Clasko, he took care of the chocobo, especially the fledglings, and studied the various herbs to heal them, strengthen them or develop their abilities, often getting mightily confused at the numerous varieties of Sylkis, Mimett and Pahsana Greens but trying his best nonetheless.

He helped with chores both in the ranch and at home, while Clasko concentrated on training his birds to be sent out to discover several hidden dungeons around Spira and bring back items for O’aka to trade, or worked in his lab to treat chocobo feathers for various uses – such as temporarily increasing the speed of the consumer.

In his free time, Harry and Sky Runner played together or ran around, generally having fun. Sometimes they joined the tourists at the settlement of the Calm Skies gaming company, where the managers were always willing to give him a few credits for the games if he assisted with their Publicity Campaigns, though Harry found that the funniest part was riding the hover from one attraction to another, rather than the games themselves; but he probably wouldn’t have bothered dropping by so regularly if Sky Runner hadn’t somehow learned how to get there without ever getting lost in the Calm Lands.

His chocobo friend was super smart! Harry had found himself chatting with him more and more often and Sky Runner always listened intently and offered comforting warbles or excited kwehs as needed. And speeding along with him was still the best way to enjoy free time!

Harry was also constantly on the look out, in case Lady Yuna and the Gullwings happened to pass by. True to his heroine-worship, Harry had quickly ferreted out all that Clasko knew about her and the gentle man had not only admitted to having met the High Summoner several times during her legendary pilgrimage, but also confessed that she dropped by his ranch from time to time. Harry kept hoping it would happen while he was there.

When it was O’aka’s turn to take him away, they travelled here and there, wherever it stroke the vendor’s fancy, and met loads of interesting people.

Several times they’d gone to the Moonflow, where Harry liked spending time with Tobli’s Hypello assistants: the blue, frog-like lazybums were totally sweet and funny and always indulged him in his games. Too bad that after a while, catching a ride on their shoopufs became really boring, even at night when the pyreflies gathered on the surface of the river, making the water glow and sparkle and the moonlilies on the banks shine softly.

Twice they’d visited Kilika, where O’aka was always sure to find good customers. Harry was forever hoping they’d head there because the easiest way to reach the island was by boat and he simply adored sailing. He spent most of his time aboard climbing like a monkey up the masts, the lively wind ruffling his ever-untidy hair and leaving a faint taste of salt on his tanned skin.

Kilika itself had a tropical feel that reminded him of the advertising in Aunt Petunia’s glossy magazines, with its cute little huts, wooden floating docks and all the palms. Beyond the small bustling port and village there was a large jungle, on the far side of which Kilika Temple was built, atop a fire mountain. The view from there was breathtaking, especially at sunset.

The people of the island eagerly bought or traded O’aka’s merchandise, but they weren’t as welcoming as elsewhere in Spira. Often they were too tense and worried to bother chatting with strangers: the town had been greatly affected by the political struggles of New Yevon and the Youth League - many families had been separated, friends split apart – and the wound was still too fresh.

Despite the almost discouraging atmosphere, Harry hadn’t failed to make a detour to the famous (or infamous) Staircase, to watch the blitzballers training their endurance there. He’d even managed to obtain an autograph from Vuroja, the one-eyed Captain of the Kilika Beasts, and then he’d proceeded to lose it on the way to Luca, much to his dismay.

Luca… City of Hope… City of Fun… Naturally, they’d made their way there for the blitzball season!

O’aka wouldn’t miss such a chance for making a name for himself in the second largest city in Spira; especially since, as he’d told Harry, “Durin’ the tournament, the people here are so into the game, they don’t even look at what they’re buying. Gotta love blitz, eh?”

Harry couldn’t agree more: he had been over the moon with the excitement at the idea of a true blitzball event.

He had been bouncing all the way as they approached, eagerly taking in all the elegant details of the city, with its interlocking circles of coloured cobblestones and flowing script-like ornaments on the buildings; but it had been the incredible blitzball stadium that had impressed him beyond words, rising as it did like a huge snow globe from the ground it was embedded in, at the centre of Luca's docks, and shimmering under the sun with swirling tones of deep blue, topped by the bright flame that capped it like a hook drawing it from the sea up towards the sky.

Just like it promised, Luca had been full of fun! Exciting Blitzball games and performances at the Sphere Theatre, flags everywhere, flapping merrily in the wind, and enormous balloons of every shape, parades on the streets and fireworks over the sea… every time was show time in Luca!

If Kilika had been the start of Harry’s unofficial (and quite scattered) crash course in politics, as O’aka had decided that he needed to have a clue about how and why the factions that had established themselves in the time since the coming of the Eternal Calm were clashing, Luca had been his chance of meeting and fooling around with kids his age.

Since the stadium had represented a fundamental symbol of hope for Spira during the awful times of Sin, its city had always been better protected than most other places: not only the Crusaders fought to defend it with all their strength, but the Chocobo Knights did too, as well as the Warrior Monks during the blitzball season, when Maesters of Yevon were known to visit. As a consequence, a lot more families had felt confident enough to raise their offspring there and Luca had quite a number of children around his age or a little younger with whom he could play - a rare thing on Spira.

Harry had been both shy and wary at first, remembering all too well his less-than-stellar record of aborted friendships back with the Dursleys, but luckily, blitzball was a wondrous ice-breaker. In no time at all, he’d been running around and shouting with a group of kids, playing and laughing and attempting to mimic their favourite blitzballers.

That wasn’t to say all had gone perfectly smoothly: in fact, Harry had managed to end up with a split lip (though for once, he’d been able to return a black eye) in a brawl with a stupid kid who thought the Luca Goers were better than the great Gullwings. As if!

The Gullwings were Lady Yuna’s team – and he didn’t even know why he’d been surprised to find out, as clearly, she could do anything, so why not blitzball? – and therefore obviously the best ever!

Harry had pouted for an entire day when O’aka had reprimanded him, even while cleaning up the little wound solicitously. It’s not like he couldn’t take a beating, he’d had much worse from Dudley and his gang! And that kid was just asking for it…

But when he’d tried to tell O’aka so, the merchant had just shaken his head disapprovingly: “And what did ye get from it, hm? Ye oughta have sold that brat some Goers flags or somethin’ and then used his gil to show yer support of the Gullwings! Now that’s a Trader’s way – none of this brawling business!”

A rather shell-shocked Harry had just stared at the disapproving vendor. Talk about a different way to look at things…! But, maybe he did have a point… this bore consideration…

By sheer chance, they had happened to be in Luca again about a year later, when the greatest leaders of their time, Nooj of the Youth League, Gippal of the Machina Faction, and Baralai of New Yevon, had given their instantly-celebrated speech, announcing the dissolution of their respective factions for the peace of the world.

Harry had watched with growing respect the three famous friends, impressed by their demeanour and actions.

Nooj had stood between the other two, clad in crimson red, doing nothing to hide the machina prosthetics he’d replaced his left arm and leg with after losing them during a battle against Sin: indeed, he displayed them proudly, despite how odd they looked, especially next to his extremely traditional but logic-defying hair-style, that had made Harry think of dry branches in a petrified forest, and the short mantle of white fur thrust over one of his shoulders, not to mention his smoky glasses and the surprisingly lilac boots and gauntlets.

The tall muscled form of the former Crusader, who'd survived his own attempt to seek a warrior’s death, had easily captured everybody’s eyes and his forceful charisma had held their attention effortlessly.

Baralai had been a calm presence at Nooj’s side, stiffly handsome in traditional ceremonial attire, the light colours and sturdy fabrics lined with belts and bands and stripes elegantly inscribed with prayers: his high collar aided his mask of expressionless seriousness, while his posture screamed even from a distance his sense of duty and his reluctance to be swept away by the winds of change.

On Nooj’s other side, the exuberant Gippal had sure cut a fine figure in his armour and practical clothes full of blues and purples, a cocky and self-assured grin stretching wide under his cool black eye-patch. His spiky blond hair and the peculiar spiral pupils of his green eyes had been the source of an unseemly amount of giggling on the part of what had to be the silliest bunch of girls Harry had ever had the misfortune of sitting next to.

If Nooj’s was Spira’s strength and determination and Baralai its faith and integrity, Gippal was its energy and resourcefulness. Even in that serious, significant moment, he had had a devil-may-care attitude, though he'd followed his friends’ lead in his actions dutifully enough.

Together, they had made an inspiring picture. So strong and stubborn, so honourable and resolute, so determined to do the best for their world.

Some of their words had fallen right into Harry’s soul and found a place there, to be remembered forever.

_My friends and I dreamed of flying… We would sail a ship, with me as its captain… Others chose a different ship, a different captain… but... Somehow we forgot. There's a much larger ship out there. One we've been riding ever since we were born. That ship is Spira…_

And more: _There are some things you can't do alone. But they become easy with friends beside you._

...He would not forget.

Of course, rumours abounded before and after the speech and everyone and their pets seemed to have a different version of the Vegnagun crisis and how it had been dealt with.

Harry’s heroine worship was nicely fuelled by the buzz about Lady Yuna having saved the world _again_ , which seemed to be confirmed by the three leaders meeting with her just before delivering the famous speech. Of course, it might just have been respect for the High Summoner… or maybe there was some truth about Lady Yuna’s friend Paine being in love with one of them… or all of them… or vice versa… but whatever. Harry loyally stuck with the idea that Lady Yuna had defeated Vegnagun, like she had Sin!

It was too bad that all he’d been able to see of her was her red airship streaking through the light blue sky, taking her to her next adventure.

After that, things had gone back to normal, or as normal as they could in a world that was still healing in the time after Sin, with O’aka dragging him here or there whenever he’d caught wind of a ‘new market’ or a ‘special piece’ from an inn or another traveller… Harry had never dreamed of objecting, naturally: wandering around was grand and he couldn’t wait to see all of Spira’s beauty.

Even after months of travelling, Harry was still amazed at how much colour there was everywhere in this world: bright yellows and shimmering blues, deep greens and warm browns, purples and reds and indigos… even the greys were intense. Sometimes Harry had the sensation that even the atmospheric effects, like mist, were multicoloured here: or maybe it was just the all too frequent will-o'-the-wisps, floating around off in the distance. Needless to say, he found it all fascinating.

The only bad note in his days, or rather his nights, had been the nightmares that plagued him at times.

In them, he felt trapped into the mind of a monster – a mind that was icy cold and slippery, like a deep cave where the sun cannot reach, but at the same time, as sharp and as deadly as a diamond knife. Sometimes he saw actual scenes: at first of a non-descript blobish thing… attacking a fiend voraciously, sucking up its blood and stealing its magic… greedily approaching a sickly looking round rock held up on an ugly claw-shaped pedestal, desire for power, ever more power, overwhelming every thought… watching the image of a tall pale teen, his appearance wildly crazed, reflected in a spring, a lurking presence filling his eyes with dark madness… later, it was almost always a weird settlement and men in grey clothes with odd headbands… men being hurt, beaten, burned, dying… men trapped in cages and tanks, or bound to walls… Harry was severely unnerved at how all those men were so openly terrified of him in those visions… and there were snakes, so many snakes, and they could talk… the most unsettling thing for him was the lust for pain, death and blood that filled him during the nightmares, leaving him sick and retching when he eventually managed to shake himself free of the horrid images…

And always, at some point or another, the nightmares would be filled with red eyes and a high-pitched, cackling laugh, then everything would be drowned in a sickly, green light.

Those awful nights weren’t a common occurrence, for which he was unspeakably grateful, but it was unsettling enough that it made Harry almost physically ill to think of it. The carelessness with which the monster callously killed those who were helpless in his power… he didn’t want to see or feel that!... why did he keep dreaming of that monster?

O’aka hadn’t known how to help him. Nightmares were normal, everybody got them now and then: he couldn’t seem to understand why Harry was so bothered by it. Harry couldn’t explain it either. He just felt – or was that feared? – that those visions had a larger importance than was apparent.

However, the wrinkled old lady with a short fuse that held lessons for the kiddies in Luca had told him in a no-nonsense tone: “It’s never smart to speculate about the meaning of dreams!” so he hadn’t. Much.

Other than that, anyway, his life was great, and he’d been all set to continuing like this.

Until six months earlier, when everything had changed.

The day that would ultimately change Harry’s destiny yet again had started off like any other, with him and O’aka packing up their tent after a healthy breakfast. They had been planning to tour the Mi’hen Highway until they reached the Moonflow, then pass into the Macalania Woods, which Harry greatly wished to see again, and visit with O’aka’s brother before returning to Clasko’s ranch for Harry’s next period there.

They had been travelling slowly, partly because there were plenty of people milling about the Highroad now that most of the irritating fiends had been taken care of and so O’aka had been making some interesting business deals, and partly because Harry had been continually distracted by the amazing ruins scattered everywhere.

As it every so often happened, another group of travellers had camped nearby in the same clearing that night, a group of friends heading for Djose. They had traded a few words amicably while they all got ready to set off.

Quite by chance, one of the travellers had mentioned a scholar who was “showing off a scroll on breeding chocobo for combat”. Harry had instantly perked up. This was something Clasko would love to know! So naturally, he’d charmed the man into telling him more and cajoled O’aka into scouting the supposed location of this scholar out…

They hadn’t found him, but as an offset, they’d stumbled on a set of interconnected caves that had O’aka go from grumbling and pouting to raving in raptures in ten seconds flat, as they turned out to be filled with Dark Matter just lying around, ready to be picked up: it was an extremely sought after substance, that could deal major damage to groups of fiends, no matter how numerous, and therefore highly prized by all, but normally rare and difficult to procure. In front of the unexpected bounty, O’aka had gone into a frenzy, determined to collect it all.

Harry hadn’t minded: exploring the tunnels to find the odd-smelling lumps of black stuff had been like a game for him… and that was how he’d eventually stumbled (more literally than he cared to admit) on the half-hidden chest that granted him his Rod.

He lowered his eyes to the graceful, deceptively light weapon, stroking it lovingly.

It was about half his height, slender, with a spiralling design that made it look ever-moving, ever-changing with the light, though its primary colour was a dull bronze with eerie but beautiful metallic tinges of blues and greys. Its lower end was a pointy tip, while on its top, a graceful elaborated knob curved in an intricate pattern vaguely spherical but with a soaring delicate wing or wave at one end.

The very moment he’d touched it, Harry had felt a rush of _rightness_ ; he had slowly lifted it from its case, barely registering that a bright glow had illuminated the cave strangely, emanating from the slender rod and his own hands, spreading suffused light all over him.

He was lost in sensations, in the rush of speed and the joyful fun of riding Sky Runner, in an inner tune that spoke of wind and sea and freedom, in the rare but craved warm glow of a friend’s hug. It was the most amazing, _wondrous_ feeling. His skin tingled pleasantly and all the hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention, making him shiver with an unexplainable delight. The light seemed brighter, the room suddenly filled with sounds, the feel of the cool air on his face was intensified and he could see a faint shimmer all around the things he looked at...

When O’aka had found him, he’d been just standing there, his eyes glazed and a beatific smile on his face, lovingly stroking the precious Rod.

The merchant had been flabbergasted. And at first, almost terrified.

When Harry had tried to describe the hummed melody that he was hearing, so beautifully haunting, so eerily touching, the poor man had been on the verge of tears. He could hear nothing of the sort and he’d been terrified that his young companion had run afoul of a cursed Item.

Gradually, though, he’d calmed down. Harry hadn’t seemed harmed or even too upset by the whole thing, and in fact, had appeared to gain some beneficial effect from it. Nevertheless, O’aka had grabbed the child and dragged him away at full speed: “To meet the one who’s gonna know ‘bout this kind of stuff!” he’d muttered, all too aware that he wasn’t qualified to judge whether Harry was in danger from the Rod or not.

Harry had been still too far out of it after the warm tingling rush that had suffused him to say more than “Huh?”

O’aka had made an impatient noise at the boy’s blank face and cried dramatically: “To Besaid!” before simply hauling the stunned Harry on his shoulders and starting to run.

By night-time Harry had recovered enough to be insanely curious about his finding and more and more excited at their destination.

Besaid was Lady Yuna’s childhood home!

From the ship taking them to the small southern island, he had watched avidly the approaching large beach and seaport, as well as the landscape of luxurious woods with many clear waterfalls and scattered ruins of the ancient Machina City it used to be before Sin destroyed it half-hidden throughout the forest.

The only village was famous for the fabrics and clothes it produced and many examples of brightly coloured and attractive geometrical patterns were proudly displayed on garments, tents and curtains.

It truly looked like a fine place to live.

Reactions to their arrival, and to O’aka’s grand tale about Harry’s odd-looking Rod, varied from disbelief to awe and from worry or even fear to joy and hope. Confused, Harry had reverted to being shy and quiet, nervously running his hands up and down the shaft. He couldn’t understand what the big deal was, but somehow, everybody was wondering and discussing and conferring about it!

At least, everybody had agreed that High Summoner Yuna needed to know and she was quickly contacted via CommSphere. Her former Guardians, Lulu and Wakka, had invited O’aka and Harry in their home while they waited for the Celsius to make their way to Besaid.

Their small but well-furbished hut was cosy and snug, full of colourful cloths, blitzball paraphernalia and unsettling rows of dolls that Harry had eyed warily.

The family inhabiting it was a study in contrast. Harry just couldn’t understand how those two had ended up together. They might both have grown up in Besaid, but that was about as much as they had in common!

Wakka was a typical inhabitant of that tropical island, from his cheerful brightness and boisterous vibrancy to his full accent, whose every syllable seemed to bounce into sunbeams before rolling to the listener; Lulu, dark and stoic and gothic, might as well have come from a different world.

She was usually dressed in an outlandish fur-lined black dress with an incredibly odd collection of interlaced belts below the waist, and wore her hair tied up in a knot at the top with long braids dangling from it, tied with glossy beads. It was poles apart from Wakka’s chocobo-yellow trousers and electric blue headband, but also completely different from the attire of the other residents of Besaid.

She was also highly intelligent and questioned the world around her and everybody in it, herself included, with analytical precision, as well as being often stern and scathing (particularly to her husband); Wakka on the other hand was kind, but very dependent on others’ judgement and rigid in his opinions and ideas of what should and should not be done.

Most of all, Lulu was intimidating, since she was an accomplished black mage – which was impressively scary.

Harry had been completely flabbergasted when O’aka had muttered an explanation about the collection of puppets that watched him glassy-eyed and forbidding from the walls of the hut, disquietly harmonious amidst the cheerfully bright cloths: apparently, Lulu used the various Mog, Cait Sith, Moomba, Cactuar, and PuPu dolls to help cast powerful spells. It was mind-boggling.

And intriguing, of course. No one, not even Wakka, knew how she controlled them and she’d gone all mysterious when Harry’d tried to ask.

Despite his feeling unnerved by her dolls, he’d found watching her fight the odd fiend bold enough to attack the paths an absolutely mesmerizing experience.

It was as if she was scooping up something invisible – some energy or something – and bringing ‘it’ close to her dolls to be shaped, before imperiously releasing it on the incautious fiend who dared attack her, with sharp slashing gestures that somehow provoked devastating fire explosions, or lightning bolts spearing the ground, or a cone of ice sprouting from the earth to impale her foe…

When he concentrated real hard, Harry could see flickering green tinged wakes trailing her wide sweeping gestures, or simply circling her rapidly, that he supposed were the ‘magic’ she gathered and used. It was fascinating. Scary, but fascinating.

Still, it was yet another thing that seemed to separate her from the down-to-earth, far less powerful and more importantly far less mysterious Wakka!

However, there could be no doubt that they were in love. It was evident in the look that softened their eyes when they caught sight of each other, in the quiet encouraging faith in her husband Lulu showed in countless little moments, in the determined devotion with which Wakka took care of his wife.

And in little Vidina, the adorable baby with his father’s red hair and his mother’s black eyes.

Harry and O’aka had been welcomed with generosity by the two former Guardians, though when the merchant had started on Wakka with: “Say, man, you wouldn't have a bit o' Gil to lend?” Lulu’s wrathful glare had invested the poor vendor in full, turning the man into a pitiful whimpering whiner, who interspersed his mutterings of ‘Should've expected as much’ and ‘What's an O'aka to do, I ask ye!’ with scared peeks at the scowling woman.

Harry had had less trouble fitting in. Lulu’s stern and elegant seriousness had rather intimidated him at first, so he had been unfailingly polite and subdued around her; while playing with her baby under her watchful gaze, however, he had quickly realized that even if she didn’t smile much, deep down Lulu was truly a very caring person.

Baby Vidina was about as big as his mother’s dolls but much more fun to play with. He seemed to be fascinated with Harry’s glasses and would squeal loudly and grab them with his little pudgy hands and immediately stuff them in his little ruby mouth, grinning toothlessly and adorably like only a newborn could. Harry didn’t know whether to laugh or despair.

He usually retaliated pulling the red "pom-pom" on his carrying cloth and letting it go abruptly to make it bounce back and forth. The baby would always goggle and roll his eyes wildly to follow it and bat at it with his little hands like a mischievous kitten, trying to grab the bright little cloth-ball and never quite managing!

Lulu would regard Harry softly when he played with her baby and Harry had managed to realize that she did, indeed, have a hidden bit of gentleness underneath her stoic demeanour. He had also figured out quickly that if he stayed quiet and didn’t do anything dangerous she’d mellow and be less harsh to him: most of the time, she only berated him out of protectiveness. She was also the best to give patient and uncomplicated explanations, especially after Wakka had managed to confuse him with some befuddling comment or other. And she was very attentive to the state of his clothes, and how much he was eating, and made sure he knew the proper way to behave in every situation and… really… it was a bit like the mums he’d seen during his travels or earlier, before the Magic…

When he’d realized it, he’d been startled. Badly. A… mum? Sorta? He just didn’t know how to take it. It was fabulous and astonishing and what he’d always dreamed of back in his cupboard, but also confusing, tiring, _frustrating_ , and simply overwhelming.

Luckily, he had soon been too distracted to ponder his own mystifying feelings, because the airship Celsius had arrived and finally, he’d met the Gullwings – and Lady Yuna herself!

His heroine was everything he’d imagined her to be.

She was brave and determined, polite in every situation, generally soft-spoken and very driven, but also quite playful, vivacious and open-minded; she was always ready to lend a hand to whoever appealed to her, but she could be quite stern and even intimidating if someone provoked her. She was generous, but strong minded, she cared for her friends deeply and was respectful of their opinions and wishes, but had no fear expressing her own thoughts and desires.

Everything from her unusual bi-coloured eyes to her lively clothes - a halter-neck top with a pink hood in the back, yellow armbands over her biceps and denim boyshorts – invited trust and camaraderie, while the little touches she, like everyone in Spira, used to make her outfit unique – the red braid that stretched down to her ankles and the ankle-length blue and white sash – showed playfulness and friendliness. Harry certainly wasn’t the only one who couldn’t help responding in kind whenever she smiled.

Upon arriving, she’d vaulted down from the rooftop of the Celsius with an acrobatic move that had torn an admiring shout from Harry, immediately followed by a perky blonde in a yellow string bikini and an olive green mini-skirt, demanding to know what "Disasteriffic mess" they were needed for, and a tall and serious young woman with short, silver hair, shaking her head at their antics.

Harry had known instantly that they were Lady Yuna’s best friend – Paine – and favourite cousin – Rikku: the three of them had made quite a name for themselves all over Spira, what with their willingness to rush to anybody’s aid, be it by fighting monsters or selling tickets, solving disputes or finding hidden treasure…

In short, they were awesome.

Harry thought that the way they lived, always travelling around, seeing amazing things, helping others, was totally amazing!

Maybe he’d do the same when he grew up.

The Gullwings had greeted O’aka merrily and the merchant had wasted no time in introducing his young friend and explaining the situation.

To Harry’s delight and embarrassment at the same time, Lady Yuna had been very interested in his Rod and very, very surprised at the reaction it had to him – and to her.

She’d asked him to explain in detail how he’d come to have it; Harry had done so… mostly… but had hesitated a bit before confessing about the melodious hum that no-one else seemed to hear, worried that she might mock him or think him crazy.

To his great surprise, Lady Yuna could hear it too, and moreover, she’d been able to explain why most people couldn’t.

“Harry…” she’d told him with a gentle smile: “You’re a Summoner!”

She’d laughed kindly at his wide, disbelieving eyes: “I suppose I should say that you have the _potential_ to be a Summoner. It is an innate talent… I was like you.” She’d held out her hand: “Will you let me take your Rod for a moment?”

“Uh… yeah… sure, of course…” he’d blushed and handed it over.

She had taken it gently and to his surprise, she’d got the same effect from it – a sweet, eerie hum. Then she’d swung it around and around in a fluid pattern and it had _worked magic._

Light purple wisps of smoke had appeared beside her and swirled in a spiral around the Rod, then she’d lifted it high, calling out: “ _Armour of light, halt physical might!”_

The purple smoke had turned into a ray and shot towards Rikku, who’d smiled, and it had sprung upwards in front of her, shaping into a membrane that looked a bit like a beehive.

Then it had disappeared, but Paine had said quietly: “Watch!” and she’d attacked her friend with her huge red sword.

Harry had cried out, but the weapon hadn’t harmed the cheerful girl: Lady Yuna’s protection had flared into existence at the last instant, deviating the blow. Rikku had just laughed gaily while Harry gaped, completely awed.

“Right, then!” had declared Lady Yuna decisively: “We’re staying here for a while! That way I’ll be able to teach Harry about his powers!”

Naturally, such a declaration had resulted in everybody on the Celsius demanding to meet him. For his part, Harry had been insanely curious. It had been the first time he got into close contact with actual Al-Bheds, as O’aka still tried his best to avoid them at every turn.

They were… huh... loud. Disconcerting. And unbelievably straightforward. Harry had been dumbfounded at how open and expressive they were: whenever they talked they gesticulated wildly and regularly made faces to put across their emotions. They weren’t the most rational people around either.

Brother had towered over him inflating his chest and shadow-boxing ridiculously while shouting at him in the Al Bhed language. Harry had stared at him wide-eyed, completely bewildered and at a loss to understand him.

Given his looks, the wild and violent body-language was even more nerve-shattering: Brother’s blond hair were shaved on the sides, leaving only a strip running down the middle in a stiff crest and his ears were adorned with multiple earrings, which along with the impressive tattoos on his bare chest and arms all contributed to make him look dangerously unreliable.

Brother wasn’t the only one on board that might be classified as eccentric, however, if Rikku’s reaction to his shenanigans was anything to go by: she’d jumped up and down in a show of fury, making her braids bounce like crazy off her shoulders and her incredibly long scarf flap madly. Then she’d screamed irately: “Leave him alone, you big meanie! Or I'm gonna kick you in the spleen!”

Brother had switched to English, apparently without even noticing: “Rikku! How dare you speak to your leader like that!”

“Ooh! Shut up, already!” had retorted the spitfire, narrowing her eyes and waving her fists threateningly.

Exasperated, Brother had started shouting back: "Who is the leader? I am! I give orders around here!!" As far as attempts to maintain order went, that had been pretty comical, since his effort to loom over her, hands on his hips and looking down on the much shorter girl, had had no effect but to have Rikku mirroring the pose looking up just as furiously.

Brother had then tried gesticulating and yelling something indecipherable in Al Bhed, but the only effect had been a deepening of Rikku’s scowl and a very sound kick in the man’s shin from the indomitable girl.

Yuna, as always the pacifier, had tried to apologize to Harry, saying that Brother had always been overprotective of her: “He… he doesn’t mean harm, you know? It’s just… I’m afraid Brother sometimes acts without thinking…” She’d smiled with embarrassment at a bewildered Harry.

“Most times!” had interjected Rikky with a belligerent shout.

“That no true!” had bellowed Brother back.

“What about that time you hit me with the Thunder spell!” the tiny blonde shrieked, “I was terrified of lightning for years!”

“I was trying to save you! Hunt that fiend away!”

“I had to camp out in the Thunder Plains for a week before I stopped collapsing in helpless terror every time they struck near me!”

“Yes… poor Rikku was severely traumatized by that event…” added Yuna uneasily.

“Yuna!!!” had cried Brother, looking stricken, dismayed and dejected all at once.

Yuna, alarmed at the idea of having offended a friend, had hurriedly added: “But, I know you were trying to save her! And, and… reacting promptly is a good thing! It means you’re always ready for anything!”

Brother had perked up instantly, showing off his muscles ridiculously and looking as if she’d given him a medal and a new house to store it in.

Paine had sighed exasperatedly and shaken her head, muttering about ‘hopelessly soft-hearted girls and foolish smitten morons’.

Harry, too bewildered for words, had just nodded warily and dubbed the whole thing ‘grown-up craziness’. He’d done his best to steer clear of the wild and somewhat obsessive man with the tattoos, though. No need to catch whatever had gone to his head!

His meeting with Shinra had gone about as well.

All Al Bhed had a keen interest in Spira's technological past, even going so far as to organize salvage operations and excavations of and for ancient machina, but Shinra took it on a whole other level. His passion for technology… obsession might be the better word for it!

At any rate, the young Al Bhed boy was a technical prodigy and unfortunately, he knew it. It’s not that Harry wasn’t impressed by the fact that a kid his age had practically invented something as unbelievably complicated and remarkable as the Garment Grid system, not to mention the CommSphere communicators, but his annoying way of stating repeatedly: "I know...everything” in a rather arrogant tone wasn’t very endearing. Especially since he refused to give Harry the time of day after he realized the other boy hadn’t even used a computer before. It’s not like it was Harry’s fault! He’d never been allowed one – or had a chance, here in Spira!

He got away with making Harry feel stupid for not keeping up with his genius yet as soon as things got tough and his knowledge was no longer enough, he shrugged any request for help off with a dismissive: "I'm just a kid." It was beyond irritating.

At least Barkeep was nice. Boring, but nice.

But it was Buddy who'd wormed his way into Harry’s personal list of Very Favourite People.

A close friend of Brother and co-founder of the Gullwings (Harry had laughed himself silly when Rikku had told him that they were named in honour of the unfortunate gull that had led Brother and Buddy to the Celsius during their journey to Spira's freezing north, and got eaten for the trouble when they finished all their food!) Buddy was the navigator of the Celsius and, basically, a more focused and level-headed counterpart to the erratic Brother.

Even his outfit was a more sensible version of Brother’s own, without any weird tattoos and with sensible jeans and a matching vest, but still cool - very Al-Bhedish, from his hard-wearing, waterproof boots to the goggles that made him look more eccentric and mysterious.

When they’d met, Buddy had frowned at Harry’s battered glasses and snatched them away, ignoring Harry’s indignant protests. “Oh-oh!... these won’t do at all!” he’d stated. With that, he’d disappeared somewhere in the bowels of the airship, while the others distracted Harry.

When he’d reappeared, Buddy had handed him a pair of thick, orange goggles with a smug grin.

Harry had stared at it.

“They’re for you,” had explained Buddy, looking very proud of himself. “I used your lenses but put them in a sturdier frame. Plus, I tweaked the lenses a bit.”

“Tweaked?” had breathed Harry, hardly believing his eyes.

“See here, on the left side? If you turn this small wheel, it will allow you to zoom, like a Sphere recorder.”

Harry had stared, confused: “Zoom?”

“Like binoculars! All lenses have something called a focal length, which is the distance from the optical centre of the lens to the focal point of what you can see. Normally, this is fixed as the lens never change position. Here, though, I – well, Shinra and I to be honest – we’ve made it so that the position of the lens can change as you zoom in and out. As you zoom in the focal length increases. As you zoom out the focal length decreases. That way you can see things closer or farther away as you need! Aaand… we added a sonar, too!”

"Sonar?" Harry had asked, obviously unfamiliar with the term and rather dazed.

"It's something we copied from the Thunder Imps, who send out high-pitch sound waves that bounce off their surroundings and come back to their sensitive ears, determining location and movements of their surroundings. You just have to push this little button here on the right and… it should be like seeing in the dark. Sorta.” Buddy had grinned widely: “Much better than normal goggles, huh?”

Harry had gaped at the Al Bhed for a moment, and then pounced on him and clutched him in a squeezing hug, struck mute by gratitude!

As for the so-called ‘YRP’, they were three amazing young women and everybody seemed to adore them. Although Paine remained aloof and mysterious, which apparently intimidated a few of the inhabitants of Besaid, and Rikku was so loud and hyperactive several people were fondly exasperated around her, Yuna was beloved by all and it was clear that the villagers felt better knowing she was home.

Lulu and Wakka were no exception, in their own peculiar ways. The three ‘girls’ had been instantly invited to stay at their place and Harry had accidentally overheard a question and answers session about Yuna's lifestyle and her recent adventures that showed Lulu’s care and concern in every nuance of her words.

He hadn’t wanted to pry and had tried to tactfully retreat without being spotted, but something Lulu had let slip had stayed with him.

Over the next few days, even as he’d thrown himself into so many new things with enthusiasm, the puzzling words had been nagging at the back of his mind. Eventually, he’d gathered the the courage to ask her about it: “The- the other day… I… kinda overheard…” he'd smiled sheepishly at her raised eyebrow, but soldiered on: “You said Yuna was your little sister. That you didn’t want to see her hurt.”

He’d looked at the imposing woman intently. This was important.

“Of course I don’t want to see her hurt,” had replied Lulu very calmly, but Harry had shaken his head in frustration.

“No, that’s not… I mean…” he’d taken a deep breath, clearing his thoughts: “Why did you say Yuna is your sister? You don’t belong to the same family… or do you? I mean, someone would have said something…” he’d blundered a bit, but after all, Lady Yuna, the High Summoner who defeated Sin, was a celebrity. People knew everything about her!... or, so he’d thought…

“Child,” Lulu had haughtily explained, “family has little to do with blood. It is love that makes a family. Thus Yuna is my little sister, because we love each other like sisters. Simple as that.”

Harry had stared at her in open-mouthed wonder, while she'd turned to rock Vidina to sleep.

His marvel hadn’t abated over the next days, until he’d had a chance to think it all over again. And come to some conclusions.

A couple days later, a very proud and moved O’aka had been promoted to Uncle, and after needling Buddy into taking him to the Ranch, Clasko had found himself with an unofficial little brother – not that he minded!

Harry’s smile upon returning had been so big Wakka had teased him about splitting his face in two.

“It’s just… well… Lulu was right, is all!”

Wakka had laughed. “She’s always right. Better get used to it, ya?”

All this aside, anyway, most of Harry’s time on Besaid Island had been dedicated to his training, for Lady Yuna had wasted no time in starting Harry’s ‘lessons’.

Gentle but strong, she had soon explained to him that when she had decided to follow in her father's footsteps and become a Summoner, she’d had to complete strenuous physical and mental training: “But that won’t be necessary for you, I think. There is no Sin to defeat, nor any looming threat. I guess… you can take your time gathering strength and learn things a little bit at a time! I’ll just get you started on the right path.”

Harry had nodded fervently, not really knowing what to make of her declaration, but more than determined not to let her down.

“Right then! We’ll start with some White Magic… that should help you learn how to focus and how to draw form your energy reserves… which I’d better teach you to compute in terms of Magic Points, as that’s the easiest and most common way to do it…”

She’d trailed off a moment, then nodded firmly: “Yes! That’s what we’ll do.”

Rikku had cheered encouragingly, and they’d begun.


	5. An Unexpected Talent

To Harry’s slight chagrin, learning magic had not been as easy as waving his Rod around haphazardly and just hoping something would happen.

First he’d had to learn how to feel – and evaluate, gauge, somewhat measure - his own magical energy, which had required an unexpected (at least on his part) amount of sitting still and breathing softly and just concentrating and That. Was. Hard!

He’d found himself fighting all his instincts in order to actually  _stay still_ and quiet like Lady Yuna wanted him to, struggling to meditate and ‘find his centre’ like she was trying to teach him.

Meanwhile, she had given him a solid introduction to what White Magic was and what it could be used to accomplish, which could be summarized in the short motto: “Heal the body, heal the heart”.

While a part of Harry had been a little disappointed that he wouldn’t get to blow up anything, he’d been too excited at the idea of doing magic at all to let this bring his mood down and besides, he’d been hurt enough in the past to know how awesome it would be to be able to heal himself and others, or to protect his friends from harm.

Plus, there were also what Paine had called ‘strategic spells’: spells to make someone faster, or slow them down, or to scan an enemy to find out any weak points… there were endless possibilities in magic, even without getting to show off some flashy blast.

So he’d worked hard and diligently, impatient to learn it all.

Even though it was a tedious process.

First Yuna would have him memorize and repeat over and over the short invocations that ‘shaped’ the magic.

She’d explained that when he became more expert, he would be able to make up his own, and tweak the effects for what he needed or wanted, but as a beginner, it was better to use those already tried and true.

Harry hadn’t minded too much, except that some incantations were really silly. If he wanted to counteract a poison or toxin, for instance, he had to shout: ‘Light shine strong. Our woe begone!’, which he had a hard time saying without breaking into chuckles. Same with the ‘wellspring of health’ he was supposed to call out for if he wanted to lend his magic to an ally to help them gradually recover over time…

Then again, there were some spells that were rather cool. Harry’s favourite so far was: ‘Mirror of light, reflect magical spite!’ – which was supposed to make any magic bounce off and strike back at its caster, albeit more weakly. He couldn’t wait to try it out, but he wasn’t quite there yet.

Because, once he had the trigger rhyme down pat, Yuna would start him on the needed gestures (‘somatic component’, she’d called it) and he would have to practice the movements over and over and over again, until he could flow smoothly through the whole routine, without mistakes or hesitations.

Generally, it took enough repetitions to make his muscles burn with fatigue before Yuna even considered letting him try gestures and invocations in tandem. Only then would she let him cast something in a controlled, enemy-free environment.

So far he’d learned more than she’d expected him to, but nowhere near how much he wanted!

Even if it required hard work and a lot of patience, learning magic was  _awesome_ .

He had an innate talent that had quickly shown, surprising Yuna and even Lulu with the rapidity with which he learned and most of all, with the strength of anything he cast. From what he’d understood, it usually took a lot more experience before a white mage could obtain effects as powerful as his.

Soon Yuna and the others had started taking him out in the jungle, looking for fiends he would have to help protect them from, as ‘practice’.

He would never forget the first time he’d cast a spell in combat…

They’d been facing a couple of Pairikas, fiends that looked like giant triangles of indigo cloth with lightning flowing through their body and a nightmarish skull-like grin emerging from it.

Lulu and Rikku had flanked him, ready to step in if he couldn’t handle it, but they’d let him take the initiative. Yuna had called out from the sidelines: “Remember, this kind of fiend mostly uses magic!”

He’d nodded, a knot of tension and excitement in his stomach. He’d felt eager and nervous all at once.

Drawing his Rod in a vertical position in front of his eyes, he’d grabbed it firmly with both hands, then bowed his head, eyes closed, for a moment, just focusing; feeling the still new sensation of his magic gathering within him, he’d released the energy with a flowing outward flip of his hands, spreading his arms only slightly: “ _Veil of light, ward wizardly might_ !” he’d called out confidently.

Immediately, bright lines of coral pink neon light had sprung into existence, curving gracefully around him until he was encased in a spherical cage of sorts, which promptly glowed brightly white and vanished to sight.

He could still feel it, though, its presence a comforting veil between him and his foe, and when the fiend had thrown a blasting lightning bolt at him, he’d barely felt it: just a mild shock dancing over his skin, while most of the blast had been safely dispersed by his Shell.

“Oh, very well!” had cried Yuna happily. “Excellent work. But this is a fundamentally lightning-based creature, which uses almost only Thundara spells. So… try to cast a spell that protects against lightning damage! … do you remember it?”

“Yes!” Harry had cried, nodding determinedly and he’d taken a deep breath, concentrating… “ _Shield us from thunderous bane!_ ” he’d yelled while twirling his Rod capably and instantly, a dark yellow orb had appeared next to him, circling his body and alighting a set of smaller, whitish sparks in his trail, while at the same time, similar dark yellow orbs of magic circled Lulu and Rikku.

Rikku had cheered enthusiastically, even as Lulu’s well-placed Firaga had taken the fiends down quickly.

“Very well done, Harry!” had praised Yuna, smiling.

Harry had smiled back tiredly. It had been draining… but exhilarating!

It had soon become a common occurrence for the group to spend a couple hours a day roaming the paths around the village in search of ‘practice battles’.

Yuna carefully monitored Harry’s efforts, helping him refine his spellcasting, while Paine and Rikku supported him, ready to protect him if things got out of hand.

Lulu had stopped accompanying them after the first time, because she’d come back to Besaid to find that Wakka and the Aurochs, who were supposed to baby-sit little Vidina, had instead indulged in an impromptu game of blitzball on the beach.

The baby was unharmed, naturally, but bawling because the men had forgotten to change him. Lulu had not been pleased.

Harry and the girls had cautiously stepped outside her line of sight, less then eager to be caught in the black mage’s scathing ire… Lulu’s irritated voice had followed their retreat, threatening even if it wasn’t directed at them: “Okay? Okay? That’s all you have to say?”

Wakka’s sheepish attempts at explaining himself hadn’t done much good… “Well, yeah, I mean… he just… I know he was crying, but…”

“And whose fault is that, anyway?” Lulu had cut him off angrily.

“Not mine!” had denied Wakka vehemently. 

The four youngsters had looked at each other, all too easily imagining the older woman glaring icily at her husband, and had run for it, before their unstoppable laughter caught her attention…

As a consequence, however, Lulu had declined any further involvement in Harry’s training, seeing as she had to – in her words – ‘babysit the irresponsible babysitters, or be sorely tempted to introduce them to pain’; so it was just ‘the girls’ with him.

Much to his disappointment, Paine had vetoed teaching Harry to use any kind of weapon, claiming that it would take too long for someone completely unfamiliar with any martial arts to choose an adequate style, find the proper equipment and learn enough to be able to defend himself.

“There is no way you can learn well without guidance and no certainty that you will have our supervision for long enough,” she’d told him in her serious, cool tone. “It would do you more harm than good.”

It was disappointing, but like it or not, Harry trusted the reserved young woman’s judgement. Paine was tough and loved a good fight, but she was also sensible and level-headed: if she didn’t think he should use weapons, then he probably shouldn’t. She was rather quiet, and generally kept to herself, so when she did speak, everybody knew it counted.

Rikku, on the other hand, had had no qualms in teaching Harry ‘a few cool tricks’, as she had put it.

Harry loved having her around. Her lively presence had made many of ‘Yunie’s lessons’ great fun. Spirited and energetic, she apparently never tired of bouncing excitedly all over the place, her trademark green, swirled eyes full of playfulness. She was at times somewhat childish, but also quite cheerful and positive, kind-hearted and strong willed.

She was also highly intelligent… and amazingly good at stealing a large variety of useful item from their foes, then mixing and combining and getting them to react until she got something great out of it all. Like bombs, for instance!

Sadly, she was a task-master and had forced Harry to spend long hours pouring over chemistry books instead of just letting him bungle his way through experimenting. 

“You have to know what all goes together and how, and what’ll happen if you botch it up!” she would tell him every time he complained. “Now list all the stuff you can combine with an L-Bomb to get a Cluster Bomb!” 

It was all worth it, though, when he brought his first few attempts at Alchemy into battle: his concoction of musk and brimstone went off like a charm right within the paws of a sahagin, one of the many sluggish aquatic fiends that often made their way to the beach, spraying water from their mouth on unsuspecting sunbathers. The small bomb went off beautifully, a limited but satisfyingly noisy explosion of flames that blasted the annoying creature into non-existence.

Harry had grinned hugely. Blowing up stuff was great!

It hadn’t all been about magic and fighting, though, or even just about studying. Yuna had regularly interspersed Harry’s training with explanations and discussions, making sure he realized that being a Summoner was more than just being able to cast a few spells or, eventually, call forth an Aeon. 

“Sin might no longer be there,” she’d told him firmly, “but if the Summoners’ power has not disappeared, then neither have our duties. Summoners and their Guardians used to be kind of like Spira’s ray of light, in the days of Sin. A lot of people depended on us. Still do, in a way, as evidenced by the reverence we are held into. But this means… we have responsibilities towards them.”

Harry had looked at her doubtfully: “But if there isn’t a Sin… then what…?”

“Never forget, Harry… a Summoner’s first duty is always to his people. This power you’ve been granted must be used to help others,” had said Yuna adamantly. “At times, it might not be clear how you can do so, but… this is your destiny. And your choice, I hope.”

Harry had nodded, serious. “Do you really think it is… my destiny?” he’d asked. The idea was rather daunting, after all.

She had looked at him piercingly. “There must be a reason why you’ve been given that Rod. You will have to find out what that is…”

They’d been on the beach that day, walking leisurely on the foreshore, letting the gentle waves catch up to their feet now and then.

Harry had twirled his Rod in his hands absent-mindedly. “O’aka explained to me how Summoners went to Zanarkand to defeat Sin,” he had offered rather uncertainly. He felt awkward at the mere idea of being a Summoner, let alone having a ‘destiny’ to fulfil.

Yuna had sighed. “There’s… a little more to it than that.” She’d looked far into the distance, the gentle murmur of the sea nearby and the wind playing softly with her brown locks.

“You know, I received my Enchanted Rod much the same way you have, back when I was a kid. I… thought I knew everything back then. Everything I needed to know… about what my duty was – my destiny.”

She’d sighed: “My father was a High Summoner. I had grown up with tales of his skill, of his… sacrifice. I thought my fate was clear… I would step down the same path he had trod…”

She’d been silent for a moment, gazing downwards to the golden sand, gathering her thoughts.

“I grew up believing in the teachings of Yevon,” she’d said eventually. “I believed… that Sin was our punishment for our vanity and that it would never go away… until we atoned for it. I… never really questioned it. I didn’t know… didn’t know how we were supposed to do it. Whether using machina was really that bad or not. If the Maesters of Yevon were truly leading us down the right path… I didn’t know, but I didn’t question. I believed that the Final Summoning was the only way to defeat Sin… the only way. And I believed that, no matter what, it was the right thing to do. To bring a Calm… even just for a little while. Even just for a moment… to let the people of Spira sleep serenely at night, walk in the sun with a smile, free of fear, free of worries… it was worth it, it was worth any sacrifice.”

She paused.

“So I believed,” she’d sighed.

“But you no longer do?” had asked Harry uncertainly.

Yuna had shaken her head a little, smiling sadly: “My pilgrimage… opened my eyes to many things. First I learned that the Church of Yevon was all a big lie. Then… well… one of my Guardians helped me see how pointless sacrifice in the name of victory is. ‘We had no choice’, that was our constant excuse… but… that way of thinking, it only brings regret.”

She’d raised her gaze to look far, into the distance, into the blue sea and lighter sky stretched apparently forever.

“I still believe that doing all in my power to help others, to make their lives easier, safer, is worth any effort. But… I no longer think it is worth any sacrifice.” She’d turned to look at Harry, hesitantly: “Do you understand the difference?”

Harry hadn’t, not really.

So Yuna had rushed on: “I want peace. I want happiness. But I don't want friends to die... or fade away. I want to be able to smile… but also… to have those I love beside me, smiling with me. I don't want battles where we have to lose in order to win!” By the end, her voice had grown passionate, but then had broken again: “I don’t want to be sad when I should be celebrating…”

“You don’t look sad now,” had blurted out Harry, not entirely grasping the sense of her speech.

Yuna had laughed softly, gaily. “No, because I’m not. I am… free, now, see? I have fulfilled my responsibilities as a Summoner, maybe in an unconventional way, but that’s the fun, right? I have lived up to the expectations that were put on my shoulders just because I was the heir to a great legacy and I have gone on with my life… and I still have most of my family, my friends, at my side. So now I’m… happy. Serene.”

She’d turned to look at him, the playful spark quite visible in her differently coloured eyes: “You will be as well, one day,” she’d told him softly, with absolute certainty.

Harry had smiled back a bit uncertainly.

Fortunately for his still young mind, not all of their discussions had been so deep and complex. Sometimes Yuna had just wanted to help him cope with the inevitability of his becoming a public figure.

“One would think it’s a good thing, to be famous,” he’d grumbled once after yet another ‘how to deal with troublesome petitioners, reporters, well-wishers and exalted who want to kill you’ speech. “Blitzballers do their very best to be well-known!”

Yuna had laughed softly. “They, too, end up having the same problems, you know. Summoners are respected, treasured even, and that feels good. To be relied upon, to be welcomed everywhere, to see people excited by your mere presence, it is naturally very flattering, and brings joy. But, it is also a burden. When your opinion matters so much, you have to be cautious in giving it. When your influence can change lives, both for the better and for the worse, you have to weight the consequences of your actions carefully. And when everybody looks at you to make things better... you can’t let them down, you see?”

Harry had grimaced. Yes, he had felt the weight of other people’s hopes and expectations from the very start, and it kept growing day by day, even relatively hidden away as he was in Besaid.

“The worst thing is that no matter what, you'll always have eyes on you, to admire, but also to judge. I learned to watch my own actions and words at all times. And I used to practise smiling when I’m feeling sad, you know? It’s hard. But it’s essential. Summoners are those everybody looks to in times of troubles. People feel better if they think you can handle everything… if they believe nothing can get you down.”

“But what if I do feel down?”

“If you’re feeling down… smile. As if you're never hurt. As if you're never loosing hope... Be strong, for them. They rely on you… so… have faith.”

Yuna’s eyes had been clear and bright as she watched him, green sea and blue sky, a horizon of fortitude and freedom. “I know it’s hard,” she’d reiterated. “Just do your best. And don’t worry… you won’t be alone. I promise.”

From time to time, Lulu had interjected with her own comments and recommendation, and Harry was comforted by the way she seemed to address both of them equally. It was disheartening to think he'd never be free of this kind of problems, but it made him feel less inadequate, to see that Yuna struggled with it all too.

“You must always be cautious,” Lulu would say sharply, her eyes boring in Yuna in a way that suggested this wasn’t a new piece of advice. “There will be those who would use your status and your power to their advantage, regardless of your goals, of the good of others, of morals. So beware!”

Yuna invariably nodded, but then just as consistently added: “But never forget that to refuse a call for help without a very good reason is… wrong, ok?”

More often than not, it was Paine who cut the exchange with one of her dry remarks, which generally went along the lines of: “It’s your choice. And yours alone. Ultimately… only you can choose what to do with your gifts. You, and no one else!”

Sometimes it had been Harry who initiated their ‘serious talks’.

“What’s the fayth?" he had asked one night, trying to make sense of things. "The fayth Summoners pray to get their Aeons? How does _that_ work, anyway?"

Most people on the island were gathered around big bonfires, celebrating the Besaid Aurochs who would leave the next day for Luca and the annual blitzball tournament. Rikku had been making a spectacle of herself, shouting excitedly about something or other. Lulu had been scolding Brother for his usual antics, all the while keeping an eagle eye on her baby being passed around by the Aurochs like a luck charm. Even Paine had stood with the others, a glass in her hand, and had even been seen laughing once.

Yuna had been the only one to stay apart that night, gaze lost in the vastness of the night sky, contemplating the myriad of gleaming stars. Harry had been a little hesitant to disturb her, because she’d looked lost in bittersweet thoughts, but he’d really wanted to know.

She hadn’t minded. She’d just smiled at him and motioned for them both to sit on a half-buried log nearby.

“The fayth are people who gave their lives to battle Sin, Harry,” she’d explained. “Yevon took their souls, willingly given from their still-living bodies, and they lived on forever, trapped in statues. But when a Summoner took enough time to ask for it, if his heart was pure enough, true enough to Spira… the soul of the fayth emerged once again. That’s what we used to call an Aeon.”

“Aeon…” had whispered Harry reverently. It was a hard concept to grasp, a being of pure magic that would just come to someone’s call – albeit a special someone.

Someone like Harry.

It was beyond incredible.

“Aeons are creatures of spirit magic,” had continued Yuna. “They are the embodiment of the fayth’s dreams, as evoked by the Summoner. The physical form of an idea, that can manifest in the real world thanks to the Summoner’s power.”

She’d fallen silent for a long moment, then struggled to put into words what was still missing from the explanation: “The mental link that forms between Summoner and Aeon… it is indescribable. The sheer… joy… it can offer… the reassurance and unconditional support that flows through such a bond… I… it is… rewarding. Deeply so.”

She’d taken a deep breath.

“I miss it,” she’d admitted quietly.

Harry hadn’t said anything. He couldn’t imagine… and yet, somehow, he did it all the time. Or at least tried to. It was all so very confusing, but very exciting too.

"And there's how many of the Aeons?" he’d asked, already dreaming of calling one to his side.

But Yuna had shaken her head. "There used to be Eight, and the Final Summoning, which worked differently," she’d explained. "But now they’re gone…"

“You mean I won’t be able to call them?” had asked Harry, disappointed. “Ever?”

“I don’t know, Harry,” had said Yuna apologetically. “Maybe there are still some Aeons somewhere and it is your destiny to find them. Or maybe the time of Summoning is past and your task will be of a different nature…”

“But isn’t Summoning what Summoners do?”

“Yes, but a Summoner also has the power to send the dead onwards, and to the Farplane."

“Huh?” Harry had been totally confused at that one.

Yuna had chuckled gently. “The Farplane is… the Afterlife. Where you go after you die,” she’d explained. “Well, where you’re supposed to go at any rate. Sometimes, the dead don’t want to go on… because they’re not sure about the way, or more likely, because they feel they still have something to do here on this plane…”

Her expression, still wistfully turned upwards to watch the stars, had grown thoughtful, pondering, and slowly, a pensive frown had appeared on her face: “Actually, that’s possibly the most powerful of a Summoner’s tools… it’s what I used eventually to bring about the Eternal Calm… after we – my Guardian and I – defeated him, I put Yu Yevon’s spirit at rest, and that was what ensured the Calm would last, instead of perpetuating the cycle of Sin’s return.”

Harry’s breath had caught, surprised at the revelation. She’d never mentioned her battle against Sin before, not directly.

“It was the same with the Vegnagun crisis,” she’d continued, oblivious to his wide-eyed stare, “I helped Shuyin and Lenne move on… reach the Farplane...”

Harry, spellbound, had furrowed his brow in confusion. “Who are… were… Shuyin and Lenne? And how does that even work, anyway?” he had asked with a puzzled frown. “Is the Farplane a… a place? Like, an actual one?”

She’d thought a little on that. “I think I can talk Brother into taking us to the former Guadosalam. There you will see… and understand. You need to see the Farplane for yourself. After all, it is a Summoner’s duty to help the dead go on, to where they belong…”

She’d trailed off, looking at the distant stars again, clearly thinking of something… or someone…

Loath as he was to redirect her attention once more, Harry couldn’t stop himself from asking: “How can I do that?”

Yuna had blinked, almost startled, but then she’d smiled apologetically. “The Ritual to do it is called a Sending. I can teach you… it is a prayer that takes time, and the movements are difficult but beautiful. It gives me peace… it gives everybody peace.”

Harry had nodded and they’d fallen into a companionable silence together.

Their routine – studying, training, practising, discussing – had gone on for a while and though he'd missed Sky Runner a little, Harry would have been quite content to live like that indefinitely.

About a week earlier, however, he'd woken up with a loud gasp, not from one of his recurring nightmares of the monster, in fact, he couldn't even remember what he'd been dreaming at all, but rather because he'd been suddenly filled with a sense of... urgency.

He'd needed to do something, something important!

He'd found himself outside in the chilly night air without even knowing how or when he'd got dressed and slipped out. He'd been glad to find his Rod clenched tightly in his hands, though: the familiar weight was comforting.

Soon he'd found himself mid-way up the hill behind the village, standing uncertainly in the middle of the path, feeling small and intimidated while staring up at the most impressive of the ruins scattered over Besaid.

In the light of day, the weird towering structure with its odd articulated joints and faded colours was just part of the Island's peculiar but familiar landscape. Nobody paid it any attention and even if the first time he'd caught sight of it Harry had been amazed and stricken, he'd soon learned to take it for granted, just like all the other, more discreetly arranged, ruins of the area.

Finding himself all alone under it, in the dead of night, his timid gaze raised to stare at the impressively looming construction, had made him re-evaluate its impact. Its shape had blended into the night, losing definition, but its presence had appeared somehow more real and worrisome than when it could be seen in every detail.

The complex had always reminded Harry of a giant mechanical spider laying in wait across the path, non-existent eyes focused on the incautious travellers strolling though the supporting pillars that made its 'legs'. That night, his imagination had made him hear a raspy breathing coming from its stone and metal bowels and though a part of his mind had scolded him for his silliness, pointing out that it was just the sea, unusually loud in the resounding silence but nonetheless quite natural and not at all frightening, another part of him had wanted to hide and whimper at the impression that the immense structure was moving up and down slightly, heaving slow breaths, ready and waiting...

He'd wanted to turn around and run, flee, hide, but at the same time, he had known... just  _known_ ... that he had to get inside. Never mind that it was supposedly impossible to enter it. Never mind that he  _hadn't wanted to..._

Firming his jaw stubbornly, he'd forced down the irrational fear that had been invading him. He wouldn't let it stop him. Shaking off the feeling of dread that the huge spider-like construction gave him, he'd strapped the Rod to his back with his belt and tackled the fern-covered rocks the structure was inserted in.

Climbing on the nearest leg – err... tower – had been the matter of minutes and from the top of it, balancing along a suspended bridge-like beam had been quite easy, but then Harry had been stumped.

The tall 'legs' were topped by beams arching towards a platform and that was the level he'd reached: he'd stood at the outer edge of the horizontal surface that supported a circular building whose exterior looked positively impenetrable. A complete circuit of the edifice had merely reinforced the impression. There were no doors, no openings, no holes that he could see; no panels or gears or buttons or levers or whatnot – how was he supposed to get in? Was there even a way?

Feeling disheartened and lost, he'd perched on a circular bench-like sill that leaned at an awkward angle. In the darkness, the distant sea down below was an invisible presence, its murmur only audible because of the widespread silence. The huge ruin had been a deeper blackness than the black of the starless sky and it had made Harry shiver with cold and dread where he uneasily sat in its looming shadow, darkness engulfing him from every side.

The chilly breeze, the dark, the solitude of the silently sleeping island had started to get to him. His certainty and drive had started to fade. He'd no longer been sure that he was even supposed to be there. Maybe it had been just a nightmare, maybe there was nothing to do or to find there, maybe he'd just been impressionable and gullible.

But then – just as he'd stood up with a dejected sigh - he'd slipped on the uneven surface and felt himself tumble towards the central tower. A soft cry escaping him, he'd held out a hand blindly, grasping for support. His palm had hit the smooth surface of the base of the strange building and his momentum had rubbed skin against metal involuntarily.

Surprisingly he'd felt a pattern of scratched marks on the wall, marks that unexpectedly had flared like neon-pink burns: a Glyph!

He'd stared in awe. He'd never actually seen a Glyph – not a real one at least: Yuna and even Wakka had drawn a few of the elaborately carved Summoning Glyphs they'd seen during her pilgrimage for him, so that he'd get an idea of how they looked, but this... this was so elegant in its simplicity that Harry had felt his breath hitch.

Words Yuna had mentioned only in passing, but that he'd soaked up like an eager sponge, resurfaced in his mind: “ _Look around yourself, Harry... you'll find that our world is full of sacred symbols and beautifully ornate mandalas... those who believed the Teachings of Yevon used them constantly... to teach, to help focus, to mark sacred spaces... but only few became true Glyphs...”_

It was true: everywhere in Spira there were graceful writings used as ornaments, on buildings, on clothes, on precious items.

“ _These signs... because they are symbolical representations of the world and all its elements, when they are charged by spiritual energy, they can have interesting effects on the world they represent... like sending a power surge through a specific path, freezing an area, creating flames, destroying an obstacle... or activating a door or a switch... That is what we call a Glyph...”_

Was this it then?

With a trembling hand, he'd traced the core symbol, finger sliding over the peach-pink fluorescent lines with great care... two vertical signs on the left, cascading gently and then curving a little outward at the bottom, accompanied by a stylized tree supporting a twinkling star on the right. All encased in a circling frame of flowery geometric patterns entwining.

He wished he knew what it meant, but it hadn't been a standard yevonite script symbol and not even Yuna had had any idea of its true meaning, when Harry had reproduced it for her, later. Though just running a light finger over the traits had evoked in Harry a sense of belonging and rest, of achieved peace. Of coming home.

When he'd gathered enough courage to firmly press his palm in the middle of the Glyph, a section of the wall had slid upwards without a sound, darkness opening onto more darkness. But Harry's fear had dulled to almost nothing.

He’d felt excited.

Yuna's voice had echoed again in his mind: _“Aeons are obtained by completing the Cloister of Trials at each of Spira's temples. Or, rather… that’s how it used to work.”_ He could picture her small smile so clearly, the one she'd used when quoting: _"Those who seek to learn of Yevon's secret arts are tested by the Cloister of Trials. Find the right way, and you will be taken to the Chamber of the Fayth."_

Was this it? Was he going to get an Aeon? He had barely dared to hope...

He'd activated the awesome sonar function Buddy had added to his goggles and walked confidently into the darkness. As usual, he'd felt like giggling at the weird sensation it caused: it was like things sprung out of nowhere when he got close enough, with no details whatsoever but rather just outlines and impressions of volumes, in the odd evanescent colours he would see inside his eyelids after staring at a fire and then closing his eyes tightly. It was fun! And more importantly, it had allowed him to fumble his way through the circular room without much problems, all the while hoping to find another Glyph to light the way. But the area had been disappointingly empty and the walls largely smooth.

He had, at last, dropped on all four and patiently felt around the floor with his hands, attempting to get a feel for its layout by way of groping, and finally, he'd recognized the pattern of an etched, vaguely circular symbol. The Glyph this time had glowed bright green and the section of floor had sunk into descending steps.

With renewed determination, he'd started going down, absently noticing that the staircase seemed to be taking him inside one of the pillars on the outer side of the hill and that it had quickly morphed into a spiral staircase running along the walls, with a plunging cavity in the middle that he had done his very best to ignore.

At first the steps had been regularly spaced, but after a while the descending path had been ruined in places, with instances of collapsed flooring or leaning walls. Harry had had to slow down and become extremely careful, but the symbols he could feel under his hand at regular intervals going down, which blazed with neon-blue light when he pressed them, had reassured him that it was the right way.

For all his cautiousness however, he'd ended up losing his foot on a slippery half-crumbled step anyway and  he’d fallen with a sharp cry, luckily not far. He'd landed in shallow water: it had barely reached his knees, but it had been freezing cold and the unexpected splash had resounded ominously in the pitch black cavity he'd realized he was trapped in.

He hadn't seen a way out, be it through an opening or by climbing: he'd been well and truly trapped.

Shivering and cursing, he’d fought the wave of panic that the cold and the dark were trying to arouse in him. The sonar was great, but it did nothing to dispel the weighty feeling of the shadows closing in on him. If only there was a spell for creating light…

The thought had stopped him short.

He’d freed his Rod from the belt it had been secured to and run his hands on it in the darkness, blindly, finding a measure of comfort in the very familiar texture. Yuna’s words had been running through his mind. “An expert mage can tweak the magical energy for his own purposes…”

It had been dangerous, since he hadn't really known what he was doing, it had been rash. He had been warned many times against attempting any casting for which he could not accurately judge the need for energy and compare it with precision to his own reserves. But desperate times called for desperate measures…

Grasping his Rod tightly with both hands near the top, he'd tried a few turns of phrases in his mind, switching and mixing words to come up with an invocation that might work. He'd come to the conclusion that this had to be why most incantations were so lame, it was a pain to think one up…!

Settling on an acceptable line at last, he'd quickly, lest he thought better of it, called his magical power up, raising his Rod with barely trembling hands still clenched near its top.

“ _Stars bright, pour forth your light!”_

With a suddenness that had caught him off guard, magic had rushed up through him and run like electricity along the Rod, pooling atop it and then seamlessly spilling forth, white light blazing suddenly and swiftly chasing the shadows to remote corners, so that the darkness immediately around Harry was lit with a dazzling radiance, that did not pass or dim, but remained steady and comforting, hardly draining him at all.

Awed at his success, he had been able to examine his surroundings with a calmer heart and remounting curiosity.

Too bad there hadn't been anything to see. No way out, no footholds or grips to climb back, no furniture or machina or items lying around, nothing. He'd poked and prodded the walls and splashed cautiously the water with his foot, hoping something would happen. To no avail.

He'd had no idea whether the Trial was over, whether it had been a Trial at all, what was supposed to happen after. Yuna had never mentioned what came after the Trials. He'd barely had any notion of there being a Chamber for praying at the end of it, but surely, this couldn't be it? What was he supposed to do now?

He’d stood there in the dark, the quiet sea whooshing softly all around him, the cool night breeze moving his dark bangs slightly. He’d felt lost.

Then… he'd heard a hovering sound, distant and close at the same time. A – voice? It was and it wasn’t… a singing voice, or rather a humming one, full of solemnity and depth, sad and daunting and full of hope all at once, at the same time completely alien and heartbreakingly familiar.

It had moved like a breeze, rising and falling, coming and going, and had seemed to drift in a wide circle around him. He'd spun around and around, trying to turn in the direction of the wistful tune, but he could see no-one and nothing.

"Who are you?" he'd cried, “Where are you?” but all that had come back to him had been an echo which  darted fitfully in the shadows.

The song had never quieted though: now fainter now louder,  a sound had hovered in the air and the humming song had never been wholly silent. With a jolt, Harry had realized that he  _recognized_ it: it was the tune he'd heard when he'd found the Rod, when Yuna had touched it for the first time. Granted, it was a richer, fuller version, but now that he'd caught on, unmistakably the same.

It had seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, whispered by the waves, or was that Harry’s heartbeat? 

Carrying a question…

_What do you want?_

And Harry had hesitated, because somehow, it had felt more important than just that and he'd suddenly worried that he didn't know the answer after all.

_What…_ and the murmur of the crashing waves had counterpointed the question _…do you truly want?_

He’d stopped, and thought, and images had risen in him… of O’aka gesturing about something or other, of Clasko smiling ruefully, of Sky Runner flapping his wings excitedly and warbling, of Rikku and Yuna and Paine and Buddy and Lulu and Vidina and Wakka… of the beach near the village of Besaid and its clear blue sea…

_Return..._

The song had intensified, and there was more joy than sadness now, though it was still solemn; and Harry had nodded thoughtfully: yes... to return home, when all was said and done... that was a good thing to wish. Right?

The whisper had changed, ruffling around him like a breeze…

And then, just like that, it had been  _there._ A... presence of sorts, sliding in place into the back of his mind, so naturally that he'd taken a moment to wonder at the marvellous simplicity of it all. He hadn't known exactly how he was feeling it, or why, but he had known it was there as surely as he knew his hand was attached to his arm. And with it had come a faint warmth of comfort, support, relief.

_Summoner, I shall stand by you._

He almost hadn’t known how he’d managed to run back to the others, or to make them understand the tale tumbling from his mouth with barely any coherence.

That very day, the whole Village had gathered to watch, amazed at the idea of a new Summoner being proven true at last, beyond any lingering doubt.

Harry had stood in the middle of a rough circle of people, his Rod held horizontally in front of him, more nervous than he’d ever been before. He’d glanced right and caught sight of Lady Yuna’s encouraging smile. Rikku had been waving madly beside her, like a cheerleader, and Paine had gazed coolly at him, projecting confidence. He’d nodded. Okay. 

He’d raised his arms slowly, in a wide arc, bringing his Rod up in front of him, raised vertically towards the sky. He could almost feel everybody holding their breath. Including himself.

Slowly, he’d lowered his Rod, gathering his energy – magic, faith, whatever you wanted to call it. At the edge of his vision, he’d seen small evanescent bubbles of energy with a green tinge starting to form and it had been all he could do not to grin. It was working! The bubbles had coalesced all around him like small comets with their wakes merging into a single trailed circle around his waist. 

He’d taken a deep breath, his nervousness dissolving, and moved, determinedly, performing the step and wave of his Rod needed to call forth the entity that the mysterious energy had somehow linked to him: in his mind, he was shouting pleadingly ‘I need you!’

Light had shot up from the circle like a translucent foam and converged to form a bright star atop his head, bright and luminous against the unexpected dark clouds that seemed to have appeared only over the circle he had created.

Harry’d smiled, certain that the star was an embodiment of his invocation. He’d felt nothing but joy when, from the rapidly spinning vortex of clouds, something dark had formed and fallen fast towards him, his shape growing more definite with every instant: a great winged creature, golden fur and purple feathers glowing softly as it soared, screeching, and then glided down to him. 

The large lion-like creature had remained hovering over him, its great wings flapping calmly and its eagle head scrutinizing him. Harry had looked up serenely, not even remotely afraid, but a little awed at the magnificence of the Aeon.

For a long instant, they had gazed calmly at each other, measuring one another up, strengthening their connection. Then the great Aeon had glided closer and landed lightly and Harry had stepped forth, smiling, and raised a hand to stroke the creature’s bowed head gently.

The Aeon had warbled happily and than stood on its hind legs, looming protectively, sharp onyx eyes glaring at the gaping watchers. Not spotting any immediate threat among the people admiring it in stunned awe, it had crouched down low beside its Summoner. Its gigantic wings had folded elegantly against its body and it had awaited orders, its tail lashing impatiently behind it.

Harry had been lost in joyful wonder. The Aeon had been simply magnificent and the sense of connection he could feel, like a warm flickering flame in his heart, had made him feel elated. He’d never seen anything like the wondrous creature in his life. Sure, it was a little scary, but still, he could feel a strange kind of gentleness coming from it.

Instinctively, he’d petted it gently while thanking it in mid-voice for answering his call. The Aeon had purred under his ministration, turning and nudging Harry’s hand, asking for more. The green-eyed boy had grinned and run his hands over its neck a few times before gently releasing the connection between them.

The Aeon had flown away and disappeared into nothingness, leaving a clear sky once more, but Harry could feel its presence still, like a warm laugh at the back of his mind.

Awed whispers and cheers had burst out from every spectator, Rikku’s the loudest, and Yuna had come up to him with a big smile: “The fayth has entrusted you with a new Aeon!” she’d said ritualistically, bowing gracefully in the gesture of the prayer.

Harry had bowed back, feeling serene.

And now, barely a week after becoming a full-fledged Summoner, here he was, contemplating the path that he could see stretching before him and into his future.

He was no longer scrawny and no longer miserable, nor lonely: he had a family now, even if an unconventional one, and friends. He had a fulfilling and exciting life, people he cared about. 

Most importantly, he had a place of his own in the world: he was no longer a freak, an oddity. He had an explanation for why he was different and far from making him ‘wrong’, it made him liked and respected. He had found his place, his reason for living.

He was happy.

It had been the best idea imaginable, to take a chance with the ‘magic’.

And now, he was about to take a chance once more.

He looked critically over the invisible window that had unexpectedly appeared in front of him: a perfect copy of the one that had brought him to Spira over three years earlier. This too opened on a wooded area, though instead of a magical night time, the lush green forest beyond was bathed in warmth and sunlight…

For a long moment, he hesitated.

He didn’t want to lose all he’d gained here on Spira. He was happy here and he had people to love and who loved him. Why would he leave?

He hadn’t yet met the famous Benzo, nor seen the mysterious Mt. Gagazet. He hadn’t had a chance to try his hand at blitzball, or learn how the Towers that served as lightning rods in the Thunder Plains were recalibrated.

But his Rod was humming loudly, passing him the strong conviction that he was needed elsewhere.

It wasn't such an outlandish concept. One thing he had learned from O’aka was that leaving friends behind was something that happened all the time, and it was sad, but also not, as it meant that the possibility of meeting new ones opened up; and anyway, one could almost always go back after a while, just like he did regularly with Sky Runner and Clasko. The important thing was not to forget. Never forget...

_Make new friends and keep the old,  
one is silver, the other’s gold…_

The little lively verse danced in his mind while he wrote to his odd ‘family’ on a piece of bark. There wasn’t much to say.

_Take care_ . A wish.

_I will come back._ A promise.

_I love you._ A truth.

Magic existed and had taken him away, given him a better life, where he was useful and wanted. Magic had granted him the powers of a Summoner... It was only fair that he followed Magic's lead wherever it took him. Until such a time when he would return.

If he could return at all...

A moment of self-doubt almost stopped him, but then words that Nooj had spoken once upon a time in Luca's Stadium flittered through his mind:  _"No one knows just where our voyage will lead us. But we do know one thing: one way or another, we will get by. We'll go on living."_

And something Lulu had told him followed:  _"No matter how long the night, morning always comes, and the journey begins anew."_

His night had been long and wonderful, full of happy dreams. Now it was morning… now it was time for his journey to ‘begin anew’.


	6. Musings of a Dark Lord

Voldemort sat back in his elegant armchair before the fire and indulged in a moment of satisfied relax.

Four years ago, when Magic had granted him a second chance, to use a common-place phrase of which time had long ago destroyed all ingenuity, he had been greedy for power and desperate enough to grab it in whatever form, but nevertheless wary of the web of worlds suddenly connected, no matter the immediate advantages to himself.

Who knows what could have been in them! What dangers… he almost couldn’t admit even to himself that he had feared the possibility of a rival to his own power…

He needn’t have worried.

The new worlds hadn’t been a source of enemies – far from it!

They had put within his reach resources beyond his wildest dreams!

Of course, it hadn’t been all a bowl of cherries. The first world he’d reached… he still shuddered in remembrance. Useless place. And irritating to no end.

He hadn’t liked anything there, from the overabundance of bright colours to the strange religion. In his not-so-humble opinion, religion had no sense, no use and no possibility of being exploited in any way. In short, it was a dreadful waste. He’d never been able to stand any form of it.

Magic was almost non-existent in that world, well-known, sure, but very weak; muggles milled everywhere and they were so  _pathetically_ happy. Apparently a ‘great evil’ had been defeated less than a few years previous and everybody was still celebrating. 

He had divided his time there between cursing the foolish, weak, pathetic lot of them and feeling almost ill at the saccharine good-will oozing from almost every place.

It hadn't looked like a very big world anyway, or like it held any valuable resources, and there were certainly very few people there. None of them of use. He still felt like sneering at their stupidity and blindness, especially when he thought about their  _faith._ Bah!

Insult added to injury, it was no use possessing the people there, either. Muggles were little better than rats and lasted about that long, with the added disadvantage that most were missed when they turned up mysteriously dead. No, that was not the place for him.

Thankfully he had remained very little there.

He’d found another window of passage in a matter of days and that one had led him to the most amazing place – and the most amazing ally.

He relaxed comfortably against the burgundy headrest, lazily swirling the wine in the graceful glass he held, and examined his brand new, young body once more. He didn’t think he would get bored of admiring it anytime soon. Lithe muscles, a handsome face, straight hair and penetrating black eyes; graceful yet imposing.

Oh, that Orochimaru bloke had been a godsend, truly! So similar to himself… yes, they had a lot in common, not least their love of snakes – the sign of a superior mind.

In fact, their goals and desires were so similar that he had had almost no difficulties manipulating the chakra-user to his own advantage. Almost no challenge, really. For all of the other's intelligence, experience, talent and cunning, he'd been no match for his greatness. He might have been disappointed in that, if it hadn't been so convenient.

Of course, he’d had to give up the secret of the Horcruxes, in the end, which was annoying, but could he really expect any less by such a worthy opponent? Life was all about compromise after all and he couldn’t realistically expect the other snake lord to disclose  _his_ secrets for nothing. He wouldn’t be a worthy ally if he did.

The Horcrux ritual was bound to catch Orochimaru's interest and more than adequate payment for any knowledge. Though he had to admit… the Soul Transfer technique was unbelievably useful! He knew all too well what kind of power a handsome face held over the lesser… and now, he could change his looks with barely any hassle, remaining forever young as well as immortal… not to mention, it eliminated the risk of another incident like those years ago with the Potter brat.

He scowled. Never again would he be reduced to ghost and vapour!

Oh, yes. Orochimaru was an invaluable ally.

A bit whiny perhaps when things didn't go his way, but he made up for it with the sheer usefulness of the fear his reputation struck into most of that world population, and even more, with his amazing web of contacts. He had sunk his fangs into anything of importance – revolutionary groups and criminal organizations and the major players in the politics and trade between the various nations all at once. And where his fame was considered infamy instead, he had well-placed spies, surprisingly loyal to the extreme.

Voldemort could use that in so many ways he might actually not have enough time for all!

Naturally, it had been a slow, tricky work getting the other to trust him; but on the other hand, it was time well spent as he’d learned quite a lot about the new world's strange magic.

Chakra, what a laugh. Something anyone could learn with a bit of training… bleah. The Arts of Illusion were an amazing weapon though – nobody knew better than him the power of deception. And the convenience of not needing a wand for some truly destructive power was neat.

He was still mildly impressed at how easily everything had fallen into place to his advantage, however.

He suspected that, had he accidentally stumbled on one of the so-called Five Great Nations right from the start, before he'd had a chance to understand the dynamics of this world and what to be wary of, he might well have ended up worse than he'd started off – which was saying a lot, considering he'd been reduced to a mere wraith starving for power.

As luck would have it, though, he'd come to this world in the faraway, isolated and utterly naïve Village Hidden Among the Stars, in the Land of Bears, one of the lesser-known shinobi villages in that universe.

Shinobi, apparently, was their word for wizards, though it didn't translate perfectly. Voldemort had harboured the hope, for a while, that the name of the place was mistranslated too, but after a few years in that world, he rather despaired of their naming skills. But anyway.

Information gathered from the locals had suggested that the village's leader was 'the Star Shadow', however it hadn't taken long for Voldemort to figure out that he title didn't carry much real power - unsurprisingly. The rest of that world didn't seem to acknowledge the Village Hidden Among the Stars; not that they could be blamed, considering that the bunch of peasants didn't show to have any worthy skills, resources, or even proper cunning and ambition.

Apparently, their only possible claim to glory was the strange meteorite, the 'Star', in their words, which had struck the location a couple centuries earlier. While the effect of this celestial rock on the plant-life had been nothing short than devastating, the weird energy it emitted had been cleverly harnessed by a smart mind into a technique that allowed the inhabitants of the Village to achieve supernatural chakra levels. A technique called...  the Mysterious Peacock Method. 

Seriously. What was wrong with these people? How could they hope to exact any kind of respect and wariness if they kept using names with 'Stars' in them rather than 'Death', and  _peacocks_ , of all things, instead of snakes?

They clearly didn't have a clue about making a way for themselves in the world.

But that suited Voldemort just fine, as he had ended up nearly salivating when he'd seen the 'Star' proudly d isplayed on top of an eagle's claw pedestal located at the very centre of the training ground where the technique had, once upon a time, been taught.

Feeling the power simply oozing from it had made him instantly believe the tall tales about chakra-users who had mastered the ridiculously named technique to the point of being able to solidify their chakra as a shield or create wings for flight... If that last had been more than a mere exaggerated legend, Voldemort would have confessed himself seriously impressed. There was no magic in his knowledge that allowed a wizard to fly unaided by artefacts, after all.

Unfortunately, the training was no longer applied. The 'Star's' intense radiation of chakra was, it seemed, too much for common 'shinobi' to handle: if exposed to it repeatedly, their insides began to corrupt and their organs to weaken, eventually leading to internal bleeding or organ failure.

And so, naturally, it had been forbidden.

The stupidity and blindness of short-sighted leaders! Oh, how he hated it!

So what if the method had a high death toll? You couldn't obtain anything without sacrifice; and if only the strongest would survive it... well... it was the way of the world, to get rid of the weak.

This Third Star Shadow, this pathetically wimpy leader haughtily portraying himself as 'wise and charitable', had reminded him so much of the old coot that had styled himself the Light Lord to oppose him.

Dumbledore had always been weak, weak and blind. Trying to spare the poor little innocent fools, forever coddling the sheep eating out of his palm, and turning a blind eye to the fact that by keeping them tied up with nonsense about 'Good and Evil' he was doing them no favours.

This old fool of a leader had been the same – too scared to pay the price for true power and justifying his cowardice with talks of 'the Good of his People'.

It mattered not, however.

There were more than enough proud and persistent fools in that village for him to get his goal.

And one, particular youngster – a mere boy, still, that Akahoshi, with all the pride and egocentrism and reckless ambition of teenagers everywhere – had been so very susceptible to his manipulations that persuading him to assassinate the old Star Shadow had been a child's play. Of course, as soon as that idiot – ruthlessly driven as he was – had become the substitute Star Shadow, he'd reinstated the training, nicely granting Voldemort the chance to get close to the meteorite.

And swallow his power as if it was cool water for his thirsty soul.

He'd kept an ear on the uproar in the village, while he'd gone about consolidating a temporary form for himself, mainly for amusement value: many had been all too eager to ignore the rumoured effects of the radiation, spurred by that Akahoshi's grandiose promises of forcing the other villages to accept and recognize their value.

Later on, when the high death toll had shoved the fools' faces into the reality of demanding prices, Voldemort had heard word that they had unanimously denounced Akahoshi as unscrupulous and mad with power, and rejected the practice of 'Star training'.

He could only shrug. That Akahoshi was an idiot – useful, sure, but that was it. Despite his willingness to endanger the village children in the quest for power and ruthlessly commit murder when needed, he'd showed a maniacal side that Voldemort only appreciated from the low-level grunts, where fanatical loyalty was needed to avoid any unpleasant protests against being sent to slaughter for their master.

No, Voldemort wasn't surprised that the fool had been unable to maintain the power he had gained for him.

By then, anyway, Voldemort had been far from that stupid remote village and well ensconced in the rising power of the Elemental Nations: the Village Hidden by Sound. Orochimaru's own den.

Looking back, he could easily say that the time in that world had been among the most interesting and challenging periods of his life.

Certainly, he’d never been bored in that world – not with that snake lord hissing and coiling his own traps around him, even as Voldemort worked to ensnare _him._ Such an exhilarating feeling it was, to match power and wit with someone worthy!

The triumphant smugness of winning the many-layered game of deception and circumventing, wooing the adversary to your point of view even as you plot their demise, lulling them into a sense of superiority even as you manipulate them to your advantage – that always gave him a thrill only the deepest Dark Spells could hope to equal.

And now Voldemort held the other’s Horcrux in trust - beautiful sword by the way, what was its name again? Kusanagi? - and could hold it over Orochimaru’s head to insure his… cooperation… or dispose of it should his invaluable ally become less valuable after all, or too bothersome.

He ran a lazy hand down the ornate scabbard resting against the side of his armchair, the blue gems on its long handle gleaming darkly in the electric lights.

Beautiful, beautiful sword... it earned instant wariness and respect even from those unable to recognize him for the incredibly powerful wizard he was. Its simple presence at his waist was enough to mark him as someone possessing both strength and wealth and this kind of impression was one of the keys to success: presenting a front of power and splendour meant to intimidate and attract at the same time.

It was how he'd made his way in the elitist circles of the pureblood aristocrats of his world, back in his youth.

Him, a supposedly muggleborn nobody with no wealth nor connections, but with enough power and cunning to support all his ambitions and rise above all the haughty hypocritical nobles of wizardry: he had ensnared the snobbish elite and woven them tightly around his little finger before they'd even realized it.

He had chosen his targets carefully. The fashion-setters, those who would take many others with them, wherever they went; the rich idiots who had the means and influence to support him without the brains to use those resources for themselves; the easily manipulated hypocrites who called themselves traditionalists, and yet wished to break the established order, greedy for privileges they felt they were due...

He had won them over with a cultivated image of brilliancy and magnificence and subtly showed off his power in many little ways to those who came to him attracted by his shining... until they'd been too ensnared in his control to break free and too fearful of his skills to challenge him.

It had, at first, been just an illusion, admittedly, but as time had gone by, he had started building his image into something much more concrete – devouring knowledge his charismatic charm seduced out of their family grimoirs, accumulating actual riches from more or less coerced donations, putting the high and mighty purebloods into his debt, until condescending tolerance had turned into reluctant acceptance, then wary admiration, nervous if greedy backing, and at last, fearful obedience.

That was the path he was now walking once more, on a much bigger scale than ever before, and the sword was just one of the many steps needed. It implied his power in a discreet but unmistakable way and made it so that he would not waste time being tested by easily intimidated weaklings, nor having to go look for covetous followers himself: they would be attracted by the show of power he was putting on – and warily cautious, so that by the time they might grow bold enough to question his actual might, he would be long ready to crush any opposition.

Not to mention, it was wickedly delightful to see Orochimaru twitch every time he twirled it carelessly in front of him, reminding him that Voldemort held a piece of him in his hands.

Oh, it had been a trade of course. The snake lord was good: no way would he relinquish part of his soul without getting something equally precious in exchange; so now Orochimaru wore Slytherin’s locket.

That rankled, but... it was how it was done. Mutual insurance and all that.

Hah! What a laugh!

Voldemort knew how to play that game much better than that. He had been  _very_ careful to imply that the process could not be done more than once. So Orochimaru had no idea about Voldemort’s other fail-safes. If it came to that, the locket could be sacrificed…

But in the meanwhile, Voldemort was rather happy to know his precious piece of soul was safe. Who would think to destroy such a clearly valuable artefact after all? Unless they knew the truth? Especially in a world of thieves!

This had been the point that had convinced Orochimaru of the advisability of the exchange, too, and it was perfectly logical: each Horcrux would be safe – safer than anywhere else, probably - and at the same time be a guarantee of its maker’s good faith.

Officially, at least.

Satisfying didn’t even cover it!

His visit to this third world, a place he was currently exploring with care, was proving almost equally good, if a trifle disconcerting.

He glanced distractedly out of the window of the hotel room he was staying in and sneered. Deling City was a horrid place, in his opinion. Reminded him too much of his muggle upbringing. It was too bad that, according to what he'd soon found out, this awful city was the capital of the greatest and most influential country in this world.

He could understand the need to sink his teeth firmly into the most powerful government on this world – doubly so, since it had the best army, and better still, expansionist designs. Yes, it was the place to rule, the key to the rest of the world.

But it didn't make the utterly kitsch and utterly muggle place any less disgusting to his much more refined taste. At least the hotel was high class.

Truthfully, he didn't even particularly want dominion of this unsettling world.

To think, a world where the highest levels of magic were restricted to women! Inconceivable! Really, he was almost offended.

Still, this Edea Sorceress had been very receptive of his ideas – though he suspected that his new good looks had had a part in that. She was rather silly and definitely crazy too. She was beautiful, mesmerizingly so, but he’d seen enough possession cases to recognize the symptoms… and whoever – or whatever – had taken her over was rather insane as well.

He’d worked his charm to seduce her cooperation nevertheless. He didn't yet know enough about this world to dismiss it; besides, her being so receptive to his... suggestions... was too convenient to pass up.

He didn’t put much stock in her plan and goals however. Back in his youth, he had researched the nature of time and found it too fickle to allow for any mastery. Still, you never know where and when an insane fool might have a brilliant breakthrough, walking on fields where sane people would never tread…

So if she wanted to try, more power to her.

In any case, she made a perfect safety case for Ravenclaw’s diadem; much better than Hogwarts, where there was always the chance that moronic ghost would confess to the Headmaster.

It had been tricky to retrieve it: first he'd had to find a passageway to the right world – luckily he'd long ago studied a few rituals to temporarily grant himself a heightened sensibility to certain kinds of magic, so it hadn't been much of a stretch to adapt them to his latest purpose – then it had been a matter of infiltrating the old fool's domain without alerting him – amazing how useful a group of highly trained shinobi could be in such an endeavour, good thing he had them at his beck and call – and finally he'd decided that he should really make the most of it all and start sowing the seeds for his return, ferreting out accurate information about who had and hadn't stayed true to him, quietly arranging a few tentative contacts, making all of his loyal followers aware, in their dreary little prison cells or in their cosy grandiose mansions, that he wasn't gone forever and they'd better be ready - Lucius Malfoy at the very least should be able to prepare the ground for his triumphal return...

No, it hadn't been easy, but it had most definitely been worth it.

Edea had gushed over how lovely the jewelled headdress was and put it on immediately. And wonder of wonders! Her mind was almost ridiculously open. He hadn't expected that, not after how well-protected Orochimaru's mind had proved – pity, that – but not only had he been able to plant a Compulsion Charm never to get rid of the diadem in her mind, there was also a distinct possibility his soul fragment would take control of the Sorceress.

It was almost too perfect!

She had also reciprocated with a very interesting gift, one that he was well aware was supposed to entice him into becoming her 'Knight': some sort of cross between a servant and a suitor, who was supposed to bond with the Sorceress and remain at her side faithfully, to serve and protect her.

The idea he would subject himself to such an ignominy was so ludicrous he couldn't even consider it without scoffing. He'd been suitably gracious in accepting it, and extremely careful never to imply even in the remotest of ways that he might be interested in her offer.

He examined the ring closely: a thick band of silver engraved with the silhouette of a lizard-like monster with finely etched bat wings twisting along its sides. It sat elegantly on his middle finger, even better than his old Gaunt heirloom had, back before it had become too valuable to show off.

Guardian Force, she had called it.

By using its true name – Bahamut, like the legendary demon believed to be the King of Dragons – to 'evoke' it, supposedly its power would be unleashed. The way he understood it, the ring worked along the name itself as a condensed Invocation Ritual that would unleash a demon-like thing on the ring-bearer’s enemies. She had promised an explosion of powers with no rivals and if it delivered, the ring was priceless.

The only downside was the necessity of ‘junctioning’ it – that is to say, create a link directly to his mind and magic. She had warned him of the chance of memory loss. He wasn’t surprised: power always came at a price. He was rather hoping Occlumency could protect him, however, and at any rate, the procedure to junction the Guardian Force – and more importantly, to disconnect it – was rather simple and could be done in a hurry, making this a good back-up plan.

Or, he could always force one of his minions to test it, properly disguising the experiment as ‘a great honour for service rendered’ or some such rot. That’s what minions are for, after all!

And there was still another world to explore… so many possibilities…

He sank a little more comfortably in the plushy armchair, sipping the delicious wine – a rare, pricey shipment from somewhere called Centra, apparently. He’d missed these kinds of luxury.

A little while longer – just enough to see Edea properly positioned as Ambassador of Galbadia, she should be able to handle her coup and become the next President on her own afterwards – and he could leave this place… and discover what else was in store for him in the next world.

And how to use it to his advantage.

Then... then he would finally go back to his own home-world – necessarily the best by that very reason – and to the place that was rightfully his: the absolute top.

It was in his nature, after all.

From a very young age he'd known that he was different, special. Destined to greatness. His adolescence in the noble House of Slytherin had honed his uncannily clever mind to excellency and taught him to cunningly make use of everything within its reach.

Dominance was his destiny.

Of course, he had to be careful... rash haste would not serve him now. Once already he had thought that he had very nearly achieved his every dream, had believed that he had had everything,  _everything_ , in his grasp, only to be thwarted at the hands of a foolish girl with no sense of self-preservation, and her unbelievably lucky brat.

He'd been such a fool. He knew,  _knew_ , what kind of destructive force the oh-so-hailed 'love' was. It broke you, destroyed you, weakened your senses until you threw away your life uselessly with a smile. He'd been very careful to avoid it – but he should never have forgotten that others were all too prone to falling for it.

And so he'd lost everything...

He had been so self-assured. Arrogant, some would say. But he had known that his carefully hoarded knowledge had few rivals, that his fully unleashed power would make all but perhaps one tremble and quake, that he had spun the messy web of politics and money and favours and baseless pride the wizarding world consisted of to his utmost advantage. He had made people believe in him and bow to his whim. He had brought the world to spin along his will, and his alone. He had been on top.

Of course, there had been those who opposed him… it was inevitable. He was a visionary. His goal was a better future for wizards and witches, an uncontaminated world shaped according to his splendid vision.

The wizarding world had  _needed_ reforming. There were too many festering problems to even list. It was necessary to purify it, to return it to the only viable way of life, with the truly powerful benevolently ruling the weaklings. 

He knew, knew intimately, that he was the only one able to lead such a world. If they could only see… but of course, most hadn't. People were blinded by the minutiae, the regrettable but ultimately unavoidable sacrifices. No revolution happens without death and destruction. How could he build his wonderful new world without doing away with the wasteful remnants of the old, wrong one?

Why could those fools not see that he, and he alone, was right?

So what if in order to fix those problems he was forced to use a heavy hand?

He had been accused of selfishness… lies!

His quest for domination and, yes... immortality, was motivated by nothing short than his desire to improve the world that belonged to him.

He could still hear the echo of the damn old coot’s words: “There is no true goal in your actions, Tom, be it laudable or despicable. There's just fear and death and pointless torture!”

Wrong, wrong, how wrong he was! He was blind… blind!

That nonsensical accusation that the Dark Arts had twisted him... Dumbledore had made that his most annoying refrain, shouting it from every rooftop to scare the weak-minded. It was a remark that never failed to offend him, even just in memory.

The Dark Arts... there was almost nothing better. The idiocy of thinking they were dangerously addictive was nothing more than a save-face for those too weak to seek the greatness they offered.  The Dark Arts opened ways; they could not change their wielder. They did not crawl inside your head and scramble your brains as every  light-aligned fool no doubt believed.  The opportunities they offered might affect the judgement, perhaps, but by the same coin, they could also strengthen the resolve! 

No, neither the use of the Dark Arts nor his decade as little less than a spirit had corroded his sanity.

He wasn’t mad.

Had never been mad.

Those years as mere shadow had taught him patience, though.

Yes, he had patience. Patience to once again cultivate his Dark Lord persona slowly, thoroughly. Patience to scheme, and plot, and arrange the world and the foolish pawns that populate it to his benefit. Patience to foolproof his plans, and make sure everything happened exactly the way he wanted.

He couldn't risk the same mistakes again.

He wondered… what would he find when he went back to his birth-world? Would his instructions have been followed satisfactorily? Would everything he needed to implement his plans be ready? It better be... There would be people to punish, of course, betrayals to avenge… but for now, it could all wait. He wouldn’t waste this chance.

So far, everything was going his way and wasn't that a wonderful feeling?

He was so busy, he rarely had the time, now, to wonder about the surge of magic that had opened up so many possibilities for him.

But it was never very far from his mind. Where had it come from? What had provoked it? Could it be repeated? Recreated? It didn’t matter of course, but he’d always had a scholar’s curiosity.

More pressing was the question of whether someone else had taken advantage of it.

He’d kept his eyes open, just in case… but so far he’d seen no trace of anyone else travelling through worlds. Of course, he’d been carefully discreet himself, so it might not mean much… but no, it took a wizard of exceptional power to even perceive something like that, much less use it… that meant Dumbledore.

But the old fool would never dare. Pathetic moron. For all his impressive power, he’d never had the courage to act… he bemoaned the wrongs of their world but never lifted a finger to right them.

And he had the guts to blame  _him_ for doing what was necessary! Sure he’d killed some… sacrifices were unavoidable! But the old man was too much of a coward… too conservative to understand the beauty of the revolution he would bring to the wizarding world. 

No, he did not fear Dumbledore's meddling so far from the cosy prison he'd made for himself in Hogwarts.

As for the boy… the boy prophesied to take him down… but no, no.

The more he thought about that dreadful mischance, the more he was convinced that the brat was a fluke. Not worth worrying over. It had been the mother's sacrifice and the amazingly strong shield it had erected that had – _temporarily_ – defeated him. He’d been careless, that was all. If only he’d never gone… but how could he imagine the silly girl would resort to such powerful Old Magic?

It was no use crying over spilt milk however and anyway, the consequences of that damn night had almost completely been overcome.

There might be some residue from the powerful spell on the brat, it was always a possibility with Old Magic, especially if tied to the blood, but there were ways to counter it; as for the Prophecy that had pushed him into that reckless action, the existence of such a prediction did not necessarily mean the boy had anything special about him and even if he did, there were ways to sidestep the always unclear wordings of any foretelling.

He'd thought he could simply squash the threat, but he should have remembered that cheating Fate was never that easy. He would be better prepared to neutralize the danger, when the time came to confront it again.

He wouldn’t make the same mistakes again…


	7. A Long-awaited Visit

Albus Dumbledore felt as giddy as a schoolboy.

A Summoner was coming to Hogwarts!

Pride and excitement filled the aged Headmaster of the best School of Witchcraft and Wizardry on Earth and made it so that it was an effort for him not to bounce around the beloved stone corridors like a zippy child.

A Summoner! At Hogwarts!

When he'd received the politely worded letter requesting permission for a Lord Summoner and his entourage to visit the legendary castle, he couldn't believe his luck.

Summoners were rare, revered beings.

They were practitioners of a most ancient, sacred art, sworn to protect the people from uncommon magical threats. Only a chosen few ever became Summoners, for the title was not given to any magic users, no matter how powerful, skilled or well-trained, unless they manifested the rare talent of calling to their aid the mighty, mysterious beings known as Aeons, entities of greater power than ordinary magical creatures can hope to wield.

They were the blessing of Magic itself to its practitioners, according to the old lore. A living, breathing legend...

Common knowledge about them was sadly scarce.

Proverbs and old wives' tales, children's stories and myths that saw Lords or Ladies Summoners as protagonists were typical and loved and, unfortunately, often unverified, the source of exaggerated and untrue details. Just a few salient points were shared by all and every tale: the Aeons, the initial trial that proved the fledging Summoner's status and gained them the title, and the pilgrimage that by general consensus each Summoner was to undertake to earn the Aeons' allegiance and develop their strength in body and mind.

Albus assumed that this Lord Summoner had chosen Hogwarts as one of the stops on his pilgrimage and he was delighted with pride for his beloved school. He was also very determined to be as prepared as humanly possible for this auspicious event.

He had done a lesson to the whole school himself, ensuring that every student knew what a rare, unprecedented honour this was, as well as how they should behave. He wouldn't risk offending such an important guest and he refused to let the children in his care be superficial about the amazing opportunity they were being gifted with.

They were lucky indeed!

Such an event was far rarer than even the Occultation of Uranus by Neptune...

Besides all the noble reasons for his giddiness, however, there were some rather more down-to-earth ones. Mainly, the fact that Albus could not help hoping, if only in a quieted corner of his heart, that the Summoner might be coming to deal with Voldemort. Or at least might be persuaded to help...

Admittedly it was unlikely. Summoners did not deal with standard magic, and no matter how horrifying Tom Riddle's actions might become, nothing thought of and acted upon by man was likely to require the attention of a true Summoner.

No, it was the most violent and uncontrolled phenomena of wild magic that called for the intervention of a Summoner, or at the most, their direct effects – such as the birth of magical monsters or the spreading of epidemic infections. Disaster events, causing thousands of deaths. Nothing less.

It was a Lord Summoner who had faced the onslaught of unnatural earthquakes that had riddled the Yucatan peninsula in the times of the Cocom Kings, provoking avalanches of snow and, in the planes, of mud, that could not be stopped by any means, magical or not.

It was a Lady Summoner who had gained control of the wild waters flooding central China during the Ming Dynasty and turned their devastating, destructive force into a source of healing and revivifying for the land.

Wild magic cyclones... unexpected mutations of common creatures into ferocious or overpowered versions... limnic eruptions suffocating wildlife, livestock and humans... sudden climate changes such as entire regions freezing overnight into ice-covered wastelands... those were the kind of things a Summoner usually dealt with.

And it had been the birth of a Summoner who had, at long last, defeated the horrid Black Plague, back in the times when muggles and magicals alike died by the millions...

His mentor, Nicholas Flamel, had recalled meeting the man, and spoken to Albus in such awed and grateful tones, even after centuries had passed since the Lord Summoner's sacrifice had produced the cure, that the old Headmaster had no doubt the meeting they were preparing for would be a most extraordinary experience.

He was determined to make everything go well.

He went around in person, trying to ensure that the castle looked its best to welcome the amazing guest.

Portraits were scrubbed, despite their subjects' loud and sometimes foul protests, suit of armours were polished to the point of gleaming, out-of-sight corners were scrubbed clean more thoroughly than ever in the last century; staff and students were growing increasingly excited and, at the same time, awfully tense; rooms were being prepared for their guest and whatever entourage would be coming with him; the House-elves were working themselves into a state over cleansing and cooking arrangements; the Great Hall and all the major places in the castle – the Library, the Quidditch Pitch, even the Hospital Wing – were being decorated lavishly.

Everybody who fancied themselves of importance in the wizarding world, from Minister Fudge to the nephew of School Governor Bowetts, were clamouring to be invited to Hogwarts at the right time, to meet the Lord Summoner; the press was already laying siege to the school, waiting for the once-in-a-lifetime event to actually take place.

It was the talk of the country, unsurprisingly. Everybody was curious, everybody was interested, and everybody was excited.

General morale would benefit greatly from the event, undoubtedly, and Albus would not pretend, not even with himself, that he didn't have high expectations on this visit.

They badly needed a boost to their spirit. Things had been bleak the past few years.

And while the full blame could not possibly be laid at any man's feet, Albus knew he had his fair share of responsibility for the returning darkness that had been creeping back into their world with increasing alarmingly greed.

Merely thinking of the series of mistakes he'd made – with the best of intentions, perhaps, but still with horrifying results – was enough to seep all of his confidence from him, weakening his spirit and making him feel tired and brittle and oh, so old. The weight of guilt was hard to bear.

Harry Potter’s disappearance… he could admit, now, that he’d made a sad error in leaving the child with his mother's muggle family - and probably doomed them all in the process, considering the ill-fated prophecy that concerned him and Voldemort.

But how was he to imagine?

When dear Arabella had flooed him rather frantically about the child's disappearance, he'd felt his heart stop. All sorts of dark scenarios about kidnapping and capture by Death Eaters sympathizers had flashed through his mind. Especially when no tracking charm had worked – at all.

He'd been prepared to force a brave face to cope with and comfort the distress he'd expected from the worried family... he'd been completely taken aback by the callous indifference and malicious glee he'd been met with – the nonchalance with which they rejoiced in being free of the 'freakish burden', the spitefulness and malignity, and the heart-stopping realization of just how hard the child's years in that house must have been. The cupboard under the stairs, that still bore an innocent, childish drawing as silent testimony of Albus' tremendous miscalculation, had been the last straw.

He had spent the following months fretting and worrying. What could have happened to the precious child? Where might he be? In what condition would he arrive at Hogwarts?

Because, for all his worry, he'd never, not for one minute, doubted that Harry Potter would show up with his peers, as was only natural. He'd never even considered that the child would _stay_ missing!

He'd been ready to do as much damage control as was needed, to fix what could be fixed and make amends to the best of his abilities. Not for a moment had he thought that he would never get a chance.

He'd had such high hopes.

He had hoped that Harry Potter would have joined Hogwarts as a rather normal, unprejudiced child, not spoilt by the lavish sycophancy of the wizarding world. He had hoped that Harry would have been curious and quite outgoing, that he would have been placed in Gryffindor and that it would have been easy to subtly influence and help him through a series of character-building challenges designed to guide him towards his fated destiny.

Instead...

Instead, his heart could only ache at the mere thought of the lost child-hero, which was invariably followed by rows and rows of familiar young faces flashing through his mind – the children his mistake had doomed to an age of war and, ultimately, darkness.

Although he would never give up and never stop working to the fullest extent of his ability to stall the rising shadows, for several years now he'd felt like he was fighting a losing battle.

As he had feared ever since that fateful Halloween night, Voldemort – far from being permanently vanquished – had at last returned. Of that, Albus had no doubt: the rumours had started spreading almost three years ago and the signs of the feared Dark Lord slowly but surely regaining power and influence had been piling up more and more as time went by.

The slow, steady takeover was not altogether very different from the early stages of the previous war: so far, the battlefield was mainly political, with several pardoned Death Eaters manoeuvring themselves into key positions in the Ministry, in the Hogwarts Board of Governors, in many essential financial venues, even in St. Mungo's.

Whatever crime was committed – and there were, if one knew to look – was kept under wraps or confined to the muggle world, out of view of the wizarding populace, while the regrouped Death Eaters went about their goals discreetly but unhindered – despite their general policy of 'gain through _any_ means'.

Unfortunately, the combination of heavy bribes and intimidation tactics they were employing was extremely effective and all but impossible to truly counter.

Albus alone, it seemed, was reading the message these manoeuvring were spelling out: the Dark Lord was definitely on the move. Most others, even those whose intellect and integrity he'd come to respect over the years, like Amelia Bones, despite aware of the increasing activity from the Dark side of their society, were for the time being blind to the more frightening implications of such a shift in the general views and political lines.

Albus felt powerless to stop the spreading darkness, mainly because he was but one man, and an ageing one at that. The Light side had no charismatic figure to stand by his side and take on at least one of the fields of battle. No-one who could inspire the respect and loyalty a leader truly needs. There was only him, and he, quite frankly, could simply not do enough.

By far the worst element of these gloomy times, however, were the rumours of Voldemort using Alchemy.

_Alchemy!_

Albus knew it couldn't be true. His friend and teacher, Nicholas Flamel, and he, himself, were the only Alchemists left. Thank Merlin! As wondrous and powerfully versatile as Alchemy was, it was simply too dangerous to let it spread. The potential for misuse was greater than for any other form of magic.

Alchemy... the Greatest Art, the mystical science of manipulating and altering matter by using natural energy, the most noble and most sought after of the magical crafts...

As a young man, Albus had been arrogantly proud of being one of the remarkable individuals capable of studying and practising it. Alchemy didn't just involve a full understanding of complicated theories, of which chemistry, hermeticism, medicine and philosophy were merely pale reflections, but also a sort of natural talent towards recognizing and manipulating physical objects through the energies of the world. It required uncommon levels of intelligence and aptitude and for this, his apprenticeship under the great Alchemist Flamel had appeared to him as the highest coronation of his ambitions.

He was gifted, he was brilliant, and what better way to shine than to become an Alchemist?

Far better than his foolish time with Gellert, at any rate...

But as every mentor must do, Nicholas had opened his eyes to more than the paths by which Alchemists can transmute the various substances of the world: and Albus had eventually realized just how dark and sinister Alchemy can be.

The alpha and omega of every Alchemist's philosophy _should_ have been the tenet of Equivalent Exchange – the one law that transcends all others – and because of that, the art _should_ have been self-limiting, since there are things, like lives and souls for instance, whose value is, simply put, incalculable, incomparable, impossible to weight in an exchange; yet, weather out of despair, malice or inquisitive hubris, innumerable Alchemists had, over the centuries, attempted to push the boundaries of that basic law above and beyond, and paid a hefty price; nor was it any use hoping that the vetoes discovered through countless mistakes and their horrific consequences would be heeded by all.

Albus himself knew all too well the powerful temptation lying in the idea of human transmutation – the undeniable, inescapable wish to bring deceased loved ones back to life – and had been unable to rid himself of it completely, even after all these years, despite managing to resist the temptation of actually attempting it.

The fact that such pursuits had always been failures in history did not make the idea any less tantalizing; and so, many an Alchemist had fallen and stooped to playing god, breaking the flow of the universe itself through forbidden endeavours, and many more innocent people had ended up paying the price of the devastating rebounds.

Thus it had become common practice in the last couple centuries, mainly due to Nicholas Flamel and his intelligent wife, to further screen potential Alchemists on ethical basis, and soon only lone, half-crazed Alchemists had trodden the paths of human transmutations – and they were usually quickly stopped, so that for several decades their world had not seen any of the worst excesses that, say, Greece had faced in the wake of the Telchines' experiments on chimeras, or the Byzantine sea fire...

Albus had no doubt that Voldemort did not – never had, never would – pass the requisites of ethical integrity to become a true apprentice of the Greatest Magical Art. He would not stop before any taboo, not even the greatest of all, the forbidden manipulation of human souls. The extraction of souls, or parts of, from human bodies and the alchemical binding of said souls to inanimate objects was something that had caught his eye all the way back to his teenage years, if Albus' discreet research into Voldemort's past was to be believed. The old Headmaster felt cold shivers down his back every time he lingered on the idea.

Nor was that all. Already there was talk of his using homunculi... alchemically created humans, or at least, humanoid creatures. Albus did not believe that Voldemort had truly found out how to create and control such constructs. The knowledge had been deliberately lost over time, because of the unacceptable price it required and because of the unethical implications of a process that amounted to building a human.

On the other hand, there was always the possibility that one solitary Alchemist might have survived the purge, passed on his knowledge in secret, or even survived as Nicholas had... and the fact that Voldemort was claiming to have homunculi under his control was worrisome even if false. Reports might have been sparse and obviously exaggerated, but were nevertheless disquieting. And if it weren't just rumours... the possibility of a rogue Alchemist serving Voldemort, or, Merlin forbid, _teaching_ him, was frightening.

Albus wished he'd had a chance to examine the supposed homunculi himself, but the Dark Lord seemed very careful in keeping them out of his reach. That was, perhaps, a good sign, as it might well indicate that they were fakes and Voldemort knew Albus would identify them as such with ease.

But what if...

Ah, well. There was little he could do, no matter his wishes. At least now they had something awe-inspiring to look forward to!

A Summoner...!

The letter that had arrived, disclosing the existence of a living legend and politely requesting permission for said legend to visit Hogwarts, was quite possibly the best thing that had happened to him in years.

A Summoner was coming to Hogwarts!

Even his much loved tart sweets seemed tastier all of a sudden!

These days, when doing his rounds in the school, Albus found himself oftentimes chuckling good-naturedly at the palpable excitement coming from his dear students. No matter where in Hogwarts he went, there seemed to be only one topic of conversation: the approaching visit of a true Summoner.

Rumours were, naturally, flying from student to student, as they were wont to do: how would he look like, what would he like, would he be young or old, arrogant or friendly, single or taken – ah, teenagers! - would he stay at Hogwarts long, would he show them some cool magic, would he come alone or not... and of course, most of all, everybody wondered _who_ the Summoner might be.

Albus was rather sure he could only be a foreigner. The power of a Summoner... it would have been impossible to hide; had he been born in Europe, his appearance would not have been so sudden nor, certainly, unexpected, at least not to him.

No, he had to be an outlander; an Asian, most likely.

Far East communities were both vast and secretive. It was no stretch of the imagination to think that the Lord Summoner might have been raised and trained in some hidden location and had only revealed himself to the world at large when it was time for his pilgrimage.

A pilgrimage that, Albus thought with satisfaction, was taking him to Hogwarts: thus marking the school as one of the most important magical places in the world – the reason why he, as Headmaster, was going to make sure they would make a lasting and most of all positive impression for the occasion.

Unfortunately, nobody knew the details of the sacred journey this Summoner was likely on; however some elements were common to so many accounts that Albus felt confident they could be trusted and used to plan the visit to perfection.

First of all, the innumerable variations on the concept of a 'Cloister of Trials' marking every stop of the pilgrimage.

Those who sought to learn the secrets of the Aeons, said the legend, were tested by it – a sort of maze, Albus guessed, because the Summoner had to 'find the right way'. Some records even claimed that the Cloisters were the Aeons' lairs or dens.

He wasn't sure what to make of it.

There was nothing of the sort in Hogwarts: he would never dream of assuming he knew all of Hogwarts secrets, but surely something of that magnitude couldn't have remained hidden for ages, could it?

Many legends and rumours also contained an element of sacrifice to the pilgrimage's end – Summoners offering their lives to protect the world. It was probably one of the reasons why they were always revered – everywhere, under every sun – and often even worshipped.

They were the embodiment of Protectors of the Greater Good he had, in his youth, aspired to being himself. And not only was one alive in their time... but he was coming to Hogwarts!

Hopefully, anyway, the sacrificial component of a Summoner's job would not come into play during his stay. That would likely become a public relation nightmares.

Last but not least, every account mentioned the presence of Guardians.

By general consensus, a Guardian was a warrior tasked with protecting the Summoner during their pilgrimage. A Summoner could have just one or many. They lived and travelled with the Summoner they were protecting and were the only ones allowed to accompany a Summoner at any time, in any place. Nobody could bar the way to a Guardian protecting their Summoner – and if they did, woe to them.

Guardians were held to a very high standard and strict code of conduct. They always had considerable fighting skills but they never used them just for personal gain. Rather, they were true servants of the Greater Good, like Albus himself had always striven to be, albeit in different fields than bodyguarding and fights.

Many spurious stories also claimed they were bound to uphold the ideals of righteousness and honour, others that they were required to go to any length to repay a debt or a favour received, or that they would always seek vengeance against a villain, never to be stopped by man or law...

They were all a bunch of nonsense in Albus' opinions.

A Guardian's one and only duty was to their Summoner. There might be a hierarchy among them but they submitted to no higher authority except the Lord or Lady Summoner they freely served. They recognized no other leader, accepted no other rule, and concerned themselves with no other goal than to protect their charge. Of that, he had almost substantial proof: there was a frail tome in the Magical Library of Melk titled _The Code of the Guardian._ Albus had never had a chance to read it, but the one page that was shown in many reproductions, a beautifully illuminated sheet of parchment, offered the command: _Protect the Summoner, even at the cost of one's life._

He wondered how many would accompany this particular Summoner, and how they would all compare to the tales of their legend. Something told him that if they did, they might well end up striking the students' fancy more than the Summoner himself...

The night of the planned arrival, the excitement reached its peak.

The buzz of students' excited chatter was like a pleasant vibration everywhere, charging the air with their barely contained enthusiasm. Everything seemed to sparkle with expectations and delight.

Albus felt the wards shift as Minerva welcomed the awaited visitors and led them in and he raised to his feet, hushing the Hall to eager whispers tapering off to feverishly expectant silence.

All eyes in the Great Hall were fixed on the doors as they opened with a low rumble, letting four people walk in and down the carpeted path that had been prepared between the long House tables, Professor McGonagall quite overlooked in their wake.

Three of them – the Guardians, everybody guessed – stood in formation around the fourth, who was hidden from view by an elegant, cerulean cloak.

The tallest Guardian in front immediately caught the students’ eyes, because of his confident gait and sexy, cocky smirk, but more than that, because he was carrying a sword. An _awesome_ sword, long and deadly, with what Albus was reasonably sure was a pistol serving as the hilt for the blade, adding to its impressive appearance.

He wore a long, light grey coat, with a peculiar emblem on the sleeves, over a blue vest and dark pants, as well as black gloves and what only the muggleborns recognized as military boots. Something silvery shone around his neck.

He held his square chin high, boldly displaying the scar that ran from his forehead and across his nose, and walked in such a way as to convey even at a distance an impression of strength, but also stubbornness and perhaps recklessness. His demeanour certainly didn't show anything remotely resembling caution, and even less fear. His blue-green eyes were alight with excitement and arrogance as he took in the floating candles, the curious students, life in general.

Leading the way, he strode confidently and smirked at everybody in a way that had many a girl sighing dreamily over his muscled form and bright blond hair.

Following him, slightly to the Summoner’s left, was a fairly tall, lean teenager who wore a long cloak, the collar high to hide the lower half of his face. It was clothes the wizards were more accustomed to and they immediately assumed he was a spell-caster like them, if foreigner. He had an Asian look to him anyway.

He glided – for he didn’t seem to be walking – barely a step away from the Summoner and his countenance couldn't be more different from the blond's. Unlike the sword-wielding Guardian, he didn’t project an aura of physical strength and energy ready to lash out. In fact, every movement was careful and tightly controlled, as if he was conserving his energy. And all the more frightening for this.

Despite his straight long hair, as black as a raven’s wing, and the lithe elegance of his body and movements, he wasn’t attractive: on the contrary, the shiver running down many students’ bodies had him declared creepy almost on sight.

Perhaps it was his pallor, that prompted many a hurried whisper of ‘Vampire’. More likely, it was the empty look in his dull black eyes, that didn’t seem to see what he looked at. Some of the whispers reaching Albus even speculated that he was blind.

Bringing up the rear was the oldest of the group, a tall man in his late twenties, with a dark complexion and a muscular build. His hair was, shockingly enough, pure white and shaved close on the back and sides, leaving a fluffy crown on top.

He was wearing black slacks with a white cross on the left leg and a white stripe running down the right and a rather distinctive sleeveless gold-coloured jacket emblazoned with a cross on the back.

People were hard pressed to decide whether they were more unnerved by the impressive X-shaped scar, which stretched across his forehead and down over his eyes into his upper cheekbones, or the complex, mysterious symbols tattooed all over his left arm, from the thin mark of a scar stretching entirely around the limb where the biceps met the shoulder and all the way down to the wrist. The black ink seemed to pulse.

It was the red eyes that topped it all, though, and even drew some scared whimpers from the less rational students. Surprisingly, that made the unnerving young Asian’s lips curl into a cruel mocking smirk.

The white-haired man held himself in a kind of relaxed tension that showed him ready to face any threat and his eyes darted around the hall not in wonder, but registering the details, assessing the threats, seeking the exit routes. His serious, impassive expression stated clearly that an enemy would only reach the Summoner in bloody pieces, even if it cost him his life.

Of the Summoner himself they couldn’t see much at first.

The four walked calmly up to the space before the High Table, where the Guardians spread out, not needing words to share the tasks of keeping an eye on the students (the cocky swordsman), the teachers (the eldest one) and the rest of the environment (the creepy one, whose eyes unexpectedly lit with a red glow, circles crossing circles, to the general fear and dismay of everybody).

Albus had to admire their discipline and the dedication that kept them alert and tense even in a situation unlikely to present any threats. They said nothing however and let their Summoner take a couple more steps and meet the Headmaster.

Albus Dumbledore, blue eyes twinkling madly and the orange whirlpools on his purple robes twirling, stepped up to initiate the moves of the ancient salute.

His voice almost shook with emotion: “Welcome, my Lord Summoner, to Hogwarts!”

Cheers went up from every corner of the Great Hall.

The stars reflected in the ceiling seemed to shine brighter than ever…


	8. So Much More

Itachi padded the darkened rooms in the quiet of the night, as silent as a wraith, his presence no more noticeable than that of a gust of wind.

His chakra-enhanced eyes, black dots swirling in a sea of red, took in every shadow, checked every silhouette, pierced the dark to categorize every possible danger.

It was his job to ensure his Lord Summoner’s safety and he took it seriously. 

That was the duty of a good shinobi and he would have performed it flawlessly with any pompous dignitary or fat wealthy merchant who'd hired the services of his Village... but with Harry, it meant so much more.

So much more...

Ninja were assassins, thieves, spies. They didn't have things like 'honour' and 'nobility'. They did, however, have a Duty. To their Leader, first and foremost; to their team-mates, and Village, then. And to the client, while the mission lasted.

Harry however had always been more than all that, more than just a client, more than a 'duty', more, even, than the revered Third Fire Shadow, the leader he had served before, had ever been to Itachi.

And it had been so right from the start, even though Itachi hadn't recognized this truth at first.

Unbidden, his thoughts flew back to when they’d met. The longest night of his life just behind him, and the most dreaded day just begun, and then that surprising encounter...

Out of habit, he tried to shut the memories down, lessons of old taking over: never let emotions cloud your judgement, never let personal angst invalidate a mission, never lose focus in the labyrinth of remembering.

But he was honest enough, at least with himself, to be forced to acknowledge that they were safe in these odd rooms of a most intriguing building: he couldn't hide behind his duty to avoid the past as usual.

So he took a deep breath and let the memories come...

He had been but a boy then, not very much more than a child in body, though his spirit had long been forced into adulthood. And he had been running with everything he had – running for his life, despite not truly believing in his right to survive. Not after what he’d done. But his mind shied away from the haunting memories of his crime, now after so many years exactly as it had back then, and Itachi focused on what had come next instead. The strangest meeting in his experience.

As he'd swung lightly from tree branch to tree branch, every inch of his body taut with the tension of flight, he hadn’t truly believed that he would get away. He was the best, a member of the Special Assassination and Tactical Squad, top of the elite even among shinobi; but those who were hunting him were his companions and they weren’t any less good than him.

Moreover, his heart had been heavy with guilt and sorrow at the loss of everything he held dear; his mind had been full of his village – the village he was leaving even if he wanted nothing more than to stay, the village that would forever think him a crazy traitor and never know how much he’d sacrificed for its safety – and of his little brother – the brother he loved so much, who would grow up hating him ferociously.

He couldn’t concentrate properly on his escape. Deep down, he hadn't thought he deserved to get away. And thus, the hunters had been gaining on him.

Suddenly, he had registered a presence on the ground a bit further on, that had seemed to appear out of nowhere – which was simply impossible.

Anything living had a chakra signature and it couldn't be muted or fabricated without consequences, without recognizable effects. Effects that hadn't been there.

One moment nothing, the next it was there. Absurd.

Considering his newly-acquired status of hated missing-nin and the fact that he wasn’t yet far enough from the Village Hidden in the Leaves, he couldn’t afford to consider the presence anything other than an enemy; especially since whoever it was had seemed to have an incredibly vast, if wild and untrained, chakra capacity. To his Sharingan, it had looked like a lit beacon.

And too sudden to be real.

Intrigued and wary at the same time, he'd dropped to the ground without a sound and disappeared in his surroundings, years of training allowing him to investigate with no risk of being noticed. He just had to be cautious, for his pursuers were bound to pick up on the chakra concentration as well, and likely react the same way.

Quickly and silently he'd got closer.

The source of the chakra signature had turned out to be a boy about Itachi's age, though it was obvious at first glance that despite his potential he had to be a civilian: the way he held himself and the curiosity without wariness with which he looked around had been dead giveaways. Not to mention the beautiful, but quite eye-catching, intense blue of his clothes.

Itachi had arrived at the strange boy’s back and at first he could only see a mass of unruly black hair.

To his great surprise, the stranger had seemed to notice him immediately, despite all his training and the care he'd been putting in staying invisible: he'd turned around sharply and stared through odd-looking goggles directly at where Itachi was hiding, making the shinobi re-evaluate his possible training. But then, maybe it had just been chance because he'd looked surprised when Itachi had stepped out. It had been frustratingly confusing!

As had been the strange weapon he'd held – which Itachi hadn't been sure was a weapon at all, but hadn't known how else to classify.

He still didn't know nowadays, even if he'd long grown familiar with the  slender staff that looked like a  bō, but a very short one, about half the stranger's height, and made of some sort of metal rather than wood, primarily bronze-coloured, but with a spiralling design that made it change with the light in an almost hypnotic manner. 

Back then he had only been able to estimate that it had looked like a combat staff and yet not at the same time and that he could have sworn it was chakra-infused, yet it hadn't felt like a charged weapon.

In short, it had been beautiful, foreign, and confusing.

Exactly like the boy who'd been holding it.

Itachi hadn't known whether he should feel threatened or not and reluctantly, he'd raised his gaze to meet the other's eyes, despite the long-standing habit ingrained in his Clan of avoiding eye-contact outside of the heat of battle.

And something had happened then, no-one could have expected.

The newly-declared missing-nin had found himself mesmerized by the brightest pair of green eyes he’d ever seen; not that he’d seen many, he had to admit - but these had been special. They had shone through those thick, very technological looking pair of intriguing goggles that gave the boy a mysterious look and all the way to Itachi's very soul.

They still did, whenever Harry studied him with his peculiar, soul-searching gaze. They weren’t just luminous. They shone with warmth and determination and hidden power.

The shinobi's breath had caught: even from a distance, the boy’s charisma had been beckoning.

It hadn't been attraction, of that Itachi was sure: nothing so silly as a sudden infatuation. He might never have felt such a thing himself, but he had had far too many occasions to observe the phenomenon of 'crushes' in loathed fan-girls as well as in most of his slightly older colleagues. He had also been warned of the natural changes in body chemistry that puberty would bring upon him and how they would increase his susceptibility to such uncontrolled reactions. He had even tried to prepare himself for it and had studied carefully both written accounts and real-life examples.

What he'd felt that day for what amounted to a perfect stranger had nothing to do with hormones and the perception of an appealing form.

It had been... magical, except of course nothing of the sort existed. The Mystical Ninja Arts were techniques, they might look like magic to civilians, but they were perfectly explainable, perfectly teachable, perfectly scientific.

This was not.

Almost without realizing it, Itachi had stepped further out of his hiding place and toward the other boy, forgetting his situation and the hunters on his trail, focused only on those green orbs. Something in the stranger had called to him at such a deep level that even instinct was closer to consciousness than that.

Even after years, Itachi was at a loss to explain it.

There was no denying, though, that the bond between them was real – and deep – and precious to Itachi. Maybe it was because in his entire life, Harry had been the first person to truly welcome him –  _him_ , not what he represented.

As soon as the boy had caught sight of Itachi's deep black eyes, he'd smiled: a wide grin, full of welcome and hope and just a little bit of pleased surprise. There had been no sizing him up, no instantly classifying him under pre-determined labels with their burdens of responsibilities and duties, no covetous tally of all the ways the precocious child-genius could be of use. He had been smiling like someone who has been waiting for a dear friend and has just seen them arrive.

Itachi had felt something inside himself snap into place: relief and peace had spread and settled into his soul, filling him with a joy that was echoed by the mystical tune the forest all around them seemed to hum.

He'd frowned at his own thoughts then: forests do not hum tunes, mystical or not. He'd sighed, suddenly realizing that it had to be an Illusion. A clever one, preying on his innermost thoughts and desire, and powerful too, because... he'd felt… complete.

But his almost automatic response of an Illusion Release, performed with resignation but nevertheless flawlessly, had not shattered any false sensory perception. An instant later, Itachi had been shocked by the realization that, if it truly was an Illusion, then it was fooling his Sharingan, that, as usual, had reflexively activated in response to his surprise. Which was impossible.

So he had been forced to conclude that either he was being lured into a sophisticated trap by someone of unbelievable power... or else, it was real. This feeling that, beyond any doubt, his place in the world was right beside that strange boy, a feeling that was giving him a stronger sense of belonging than even swearing himself to his Leader had given him, that was filling him with the immeasurable relief of a much needed peace... was real.

Accepting that had left not the slightest doubt in his mind: the boy was Home.

Sounds of his pursuers had intruded in the serenity of the moment.

The stranger had been the first to break the growingly uncomfortable silence: “Are they hunting you?”

Itachi had started, abruptly reminded of his quandary. His gaze had darted here and there, on the verge of panic – how could he have let himself so open! But the other boy had hastened to reassure him: “Don’t worry. I can hide you effectively. They’ll lose your trail and be forced to give up.”

He had spoken with confidence, but Itachi had stared at him dubiously. The boy – a child, really, by Itachi's standard – couldn't know what he was talking about and...

The green-eyed stranger had smiled again and with a flourish he'd produced a bangle, made of a silvery metal Itachi could not identify for sure. It had looked pretty, but Itachi could guess of no real use for it, especially in their situation; that is, until the boy had wrapped it around his wrist.

And disappeared.

Not only had he no longer been visible, not even to his Sharingan, but his very chakra signature had completely vanished. There hadn't even been the void usually associated with someone suppressing their presence: the chakra patterns of the forest hadn't been disturbed in the least, it had been as if the boy simply wasn’t there anymore.

Only he had been: a moment later he had taken off the silvery ornament and his presence had flared up again where it hadn’t been an instant before.

This was ten times better than any Illusion he’d ever heard of!

When the green-eyed boy had raised the bangle in invitation, he hadn't hesitated and had held out his arm in one fluid motion. Apparently the ornament could be twisted and reshaped, as the stranger had quickly managed to wrap it around both their wrists.

And for all intents and purposes, they had disappeared from the quiet clearing.

Itachi hadn't known what he'd been expecting, but the sensations had caught him off-guard nonetheless. It was, he'd reflected, like watching the world through a transparent, liquid veil. A rather disconcerting experience, especially when he'd remembered that others could not see or even sense them.

His new companion had seemed unruffled by the situation. “Traded this from Uncle O'aka some time ago. It lets the wearer go around undisturbed by fiends and such... Cool, huh?” He'd said in a barely-audible murmur, and had shot Itachi a grin that had disconcerted him, so unused he was to easy camaraderie after years in the Special Assassination and Tactical Squad, adding quietly: “By the way, my name is Harry!”

Weird. Most weird.

“I am Itachi,” he'd shot back, just as quietly. No use in giving a surname. The clan was dead anyway, and it’s not like they were anything to be proud of. He wasn't going to use the name Uchiha ever again, if he could help it.

Harry had nodded in acceptance, then stilled and turned his attention to the hunter-nins who had just dropped all around them, looking around in angered confusion.

“Where are they? They can’t have disappeared!” had shouted an angry voice. Itachi had recognized his former partner Wolf and stifled a wince. He had to have been taking his ‘treason’ as a personal offence, knowing him.

“They must be hiding somewhere around here.” This had been the voice of a dismissive, almost bored male.

“We would feel their chakra if they were!” had retorted a sensible sounding female. Itachi guessed it had been Sparrow: he had worked with her and knew her for a level-headed kunoichi whose knowledge of Illusionary Techniques was unparalleled outside of Clan specialities. 

“Unless they were masking it.” Wolf again, bitter.

“Impossible. Masking one’s chakra is a gradual process.” Sparrow’s lecturing tone had given Itachi a pang of bittersweet familiarity. “If they were hiding, we would have felt their chakra signature slowly fading. It is impossible to make it completely disappear abruptly, not without leaving a hole in the chakra background that is as telling as a presence.”

“Except that there is no such hole,” had pointed out a voice Itachi had instantly recognized as Sharingan no Kakashi, “and they did disappear. Abruptly and effectively.”

“I don’t…” had started Sparrow, but a deep voice Itachi hadn't known had interrupted: “Transportation jutsu.”

There had been a silence.

Then Kakashi and Wolf had started swearing at the same time.

“He must have had an accomplice, then,” had commented the bored voice.

“No sense in continuing,” had sighed Sparrow. “They could be anywhere by now.”

One by one, the hunter-nins had turned towards Konoha, giving up the chase. At least for the moment.

Itachi had stared after them, unable to believe he was off the hook. Relief, grief, a turmoil of powerful, sad emotions had choked him, an ache growing in his chest at losing his former companions, at leaving his home for which he’d sacrificed so much… overwhelming sorrow and lingering disappointment for the choices and consequent fate of his Clan... a sliver of hope for his brother… the terrible doubt that maybe, he hadn’t done the right thing for Sasuke, despite his best intentions…

A rustling sound beside him had caught his attention. Harry had been rummaging in his backpack. Then he had turned to Itachi, beaming brightly: “What are you going to do now?” he had asked.

Itachi had regarded him impassibly, all his attention focused to figure out what the true scope of the question might be, but the other boy had radiated genuineness. He really had just wanted to know – not to use it against Itachi or to his own advantage, but just... well, Itachi hadn't been able to tell _why_ , but he'd felt relatively sure that there wasn't a hidden meaning in anything Harry had been saying. Maybe it was a civilian thing.

“I... have no idea,” he'd answered carefully, a little unsettled at being so honest to anyone – let alone a virtual stranger. But the feeling of comfort and belonging was still strong in him and if it was a technique of some sort, he hadn't been able to believe that Harry was doing it on purpose. 

“Oh, well, wanna come with me?”

There had been too much innocence and delight in those eyes. And maybe those were the qualities that had pushed him to accept the candid offer.

“Where?” he'd asked, more out of the need to say something than any true interest. 

“Don't know,” Harry had grinned behind his goggles, “except that it's that way.”

He'd pointed his weapon that maybe wasn't a weapon straight to the north and the illusionary hum that had quieted somewhat, though never fully vanished, had intensified, making him beam.

Itachi had frowned a little, his genius mind rapidly forming and discarding hypothesis and coming to the conclusion that the Illusion was tied to the odd weapon – and that Harry was apparently using it as a guide.

The boy had stared at him expectantly.

Well... it's not like he'd had any true plans for after... well. He hadn't expected to get away, for one. Maybe keep an eye on Tobi, but...

But.

The Village Hidden in the Leaves had demanded so much of him. It was his duty as shinobi of the Leaf, of course... but still, it had taken and taken and taken and left him with nothing but despair and then it had asked for more.

A surge of irrational anger had swept through him.

It was his duty... but he was no longer a shinobi of the Leaf, was he?

As a missing-nin, he was free to offer his loyalty – dubious as it was – to whomever he pleased.

He'd bowed formally to the strange boy who had saved him: “If you will have me, I shall be honoured to guard you in your quest.”

Harry had seemed caught off-guard, but only for a moment. Then he'd quickly grown serious and twirled his weird weapon, bringing it to his side and tucking it in his armpit like an expert bo wielder, and had returned the formal greeting with a strange, graceful movement, bringing his hands in front of his chest with a circular gesture and positioning them as if he were holding a sphere before bowing.

“Thank you, Itachi. You are most welcome to come!”

Lost in the darkness of the quiet night in a strange world, Itachi closed his eyes relaxedly, remembering that moment – the moment that changed his life so radically... and for the better.

In that one simple sentence, Harry had offered him more than just something to do with his time and skills. He had given him a purpose, a place, _belonging_.

Day after day, over the last few years, he had felt the bond of loyalty and affection between him and his Lord Summoner growing stronger. Not once had he regretted it. He was sure he never would.

'Home is where the heart is', goes the old saying.

For a long time, Itachi’s heart had been in Sasuke’s hands, but he had been forced to make the harshest decision in order to ensure that his little brother would grow strong enough to face the dangers lurking ahead in his future... and after that, he knew, his heart could no longer remain with the child he was forcing to grow up, as Sasuke was bound to hate him.

He'd tried to offer his heart to the Village Hidden in the Leaves… but that had ended as it had ended.

Now, however… now his heart was with Harry – his liege, his captain, his brother. And he was always home.

With a small sigh, he turned his thoughts to more productive musings than recollections. They were about to face another daring challenge that would hopefully grant Harry another Aeon. It would be the third one for Itachi. Would it be any similar to the previous ones?

Quiet steps approached him unhurriedly.

Startled out of his thoughts, Itachi tensed fractionally before he recognized his Lord Summoner’s powerful presence .

“What’s wrong?” asked Harry very softly.

Itachi glanced at his barely visible silhouette out of the corner of his eyes, once more amazed at the other teen’s insight. Itachi knew his blank face gave nothing away – he’d been trained for that by harsh taskmasters – yet Harry could always read him no matter what. And always knew just what to tell him to help.

Itachi felt his affection for his companion swell every time it happened.

“I was thinking of the Cloister of Trials we shall have to face soon,” he murmured in a monotone, “and that led me to remember the first we ever faced.”

He did not need to see to guess Harry's familiar, small grin: “Yeah… it was quite the adventure, hm?”

Itachi noticed the faint brush of Harry's very peculiar energy stretch slightly towards the presences that were always there at the very edge of Itachi's perception, just a hairbreadth too far to be reached.

It was a small caressing touch, not quite Summoning but sort of waving hello. A flicker of sharp wind curled around them, carrying a hint or rain, a hint of moist soil, a hint of fumes…

The Elemental Aeon was quite temperamental – they never knew how it would manifest. Sometimes it was ice or fire or lightning or whatever. Sometimes it was a bit of everything.

Itachi turned his gaze upon the silent night before them, his mind flying to when Harry had gained it…

It had taken them nearly two months, since they'd been travelling at civilian speed, through most of Fire Country, then Rice Field Country, then a fortnight by sea to the Land of Snow.

As Itachi had suspected, the Rod acted as a guide for the other boy and, according to Harry, it would lead him to find a helpful entity of some sort. What he needed it for hadn't been clear in Itachi’s mind, but he had long been used to not know or understand fully the reasons behind his missions.

To know the whys and wherefores was the Village Leader's job… and now, Harry’s.

Whatever the boy chose to do with his life, Itachi would follow him and protect him. He had had no doubt that he could keep Harry safe, no matter what was thrown at them. Nothing else had mattered in the least.

It had made Itachi feel strangely calmer, renouncing control like this, concentrating only on the job. It had helped numb the pain of having lost everything.

Harry had also been a joy to be around, to Itachi’s great surprise. The shinobi had figured out quickly that his new companion didn’t know much about survival and next to nothing about fighting. It had made Itachi protective and solicitous but it had also made him feel useful and valued, especially since Harry hadn't  _expected_ anything from him. It had been Itachi's own choice – for the first time in far too long.

He had taken care of everything with impeccable skill and matter-of-fact ease; he had both been surprised and warmed by Harry’s gratitude for what Itachi had seen as simply part of his duties. He had also been gratified by the other boy's slight awe. It was good to be appreciated, even if only as a tool, as he had believed himself to be; it’s not like he’d ever been anything other than a honed instrument, to the Hokage, to his clan even, but they had just taken it for granted. Harry’s happiness in him had been a balm for his soul.

What he had not understood – it had not even crossed his mind, so alien a concept it was to him – was that Harry didn’t consider him a tool or a weapon, however useful, but more… a friend.

Back then, he could not even imagine that the boy he’d vowed to serve could possibly care for him.

They had stuck to merchant roads and the smaller civilian villages, in order to avoid trouble as much as possible; Harry had turned out to be surprisingly good at haggling and had displayed an almost uncanny ability to trade stuff Itachi wouldn't have possibly considered useful only to trade it again in the next village or so. It had made getting rid of his far too distinctive ninja clothes easier than Itachi had feared and guaranteed that they never wanted for food or what they needed for their night camps.

“Uncle O'aka taught me,” he had told Itachi with a happy grin. “He's a Trader – O'aka XXIII, Merchant Extraordinaire!” 

As always, he'd been excited to talk about his friends and family and past adventures. Itachi had envied him a bit, but it had been a pleasant way to pass the time, listening to Harry's never-ending chatters about places he'd never even heard of before.

Itachi had also been amused by the way Harry cherished the little odd details of his outfit and relished telling him about how he'd happened upon one or the other. From time to time he had even added a new one – always after a particularly meaningful encounter or memorable stop: he continued doing it to this very day. As if he was tying to his clothes mementos of his path in life. It was oddly endearing.

For his part, Itachi hadn't had much that he could, or would, share about himself or his past. Most of it was either classified, or too painful. Harry hadn't seemed to mind, thankfully, and while he'd never refrained from asking questions, he had always respected Itachi's choice of not answering. After a while, the ninja had grown less uncomfortable with his companion's easy manners.

Harry’s odd bangle, whatever the Seal powering it, had been amazingly helpful. They could pass unobserved in any wild environment. And in villages, well, Itachi wasn’t a Master of the Arts of Illusion for anything.

Harry had loved ‘transforming’. He had giggled wildly every time – still did, as a matter of fact, though they did it rarely these days.

Itachi had found he didn’t mind. On the contrary, he had surprised himself by choosing different disguises every time and going for shock value, even if it had been more dangerous because it attracted attention and didn’t allow to create a trail to confirm their fake identities, just so that Harry could have fun. Had he remembered how to do it, he knew he would have smiled often at the other boy's enthusiasm.

Eventually they’d reached… wherever it was that they’d been headed to.

The Land of Snow had been new territory for Itachi. He had read everything his old Village had managed to collect about it, but it hadn't been much, all in all. About the only information of importance had been that their shinobi wore special chakra-laden armours that made them virtually immune to most chakra-based techniques. As he had been determined to avoid any confrontation and steer clear of its Hidden Village as well as any patrols, that hadn't been of much use.

They had moved from settlement to settlement at leisure, easily pretending to be travelling merchants: Harry's experience with the role had been very useful and Itachi had always been a quick study, and well-trained in infiltration and impersonation.

The unusually advanced level of technology everywhere had rather caught him off guard. He had seen things such as railroads and power generators before, but they were usually rare in the Elemental Nations. He had also been surprised at the familiarity Harry had showed with snow mobiles and hovercrafts, guns and cannons, elevators and even airships – though he had tended to call them all 'machina', a term nobody had seemed to have ever heard.

Trading around this and that until they'd managed to rent a snow mobile had certainly made the last few miles much easier, anyway. Itachi would have been terribly worried had they been forced to trudge through the deep snow of a chilly, hostile land on their own power alone. He would have managed, of course, but Harry had no training and even if the boy never complained, that hadn't made Itachi feel any better.

The other boy's excitement, too, had not been too hopeful a sign in his eyes. His Rod, apparently, was claiming they were close. Itachi had been careful not to voice his scepticism. That an item could be powered by a Seal so that it acted as a compass towards a peculiar chakra signature, he could accept. But a form of sentience? Was that actually possible? 

But Harry had already done the impossible a couple times, hadn’t he? Maybe he could give him the benefit of doubt…

Besides, he’d seen weirder things - and Harry was his client, in a way. He wouldn't argue with him.

For all his scepticism, anyway, he'd been too well-trained not to notice how the humming vibration emanating from the Rod had steadily increased and too intelligent to dismiss evidence, however odd, out of prejudice. He had cautiously admitted that it just might possibly be all true.

The hum had climaxed into a song the moment they had stepped into a half-hidden cave. A mysterious, pervasive tune, daunting and moving. One that in later years Itachi had become extremely familiar with, yet it always had the power to touch something deep inside him.

It had soon waned to a barely audible background hum, but hadn't disappear the whole time they'd been there. It had given the atmosphere a sort of sacred feeling, like in a Monk Temple.

Itachi had been highly tense but had hid it as usual, holding himself ready for anything.

Harry had warned him, in a roundabout way, about the fact that they would have to overcome a sort of maze. That made sense, but it had also worried him. Still, if that was what Harry wanted, that was what Itachi would do.

They had made their way down the cave and elaborate, refined ornaments had started appearing, mostly centred around the symbols of the five Elements and their combinations, as the area divided into several interconnected passageways.

Complex patterns of coloured tiles had covered the walls of the corridors, forming mosaics dedicated to what Itachi could easily identify as elemental attacks. Sculptures of odd-looking creatures with wings and claws had loomed over every stone archway.

Harry had been awed, eyes huge in wonder. “I know I’m supposed to face a Cloister of Trials to earn the right to Summon the Aeon,” he had said determinedly, “but my first one was nothing as impressive as this!”

Itachi had winced at that, but kept silent.

It had not taken long before their path had been blocked by the first 'Trial', a puzzle of sorts, requiring them to reconstruct a particularly complex pattern by moving around sliding tiles over a wall. Fortunately, it hadn't been difficult: Itachi was a genius after all and his Sharingan guaranteed he would remember the configurations effortlessly. Harry’s quiet and sincere admiration, so devoid of any adulation, disconcerted him.

The completed design had lit up under Harry's hand. A Glyph, the boy had called it – a kind of Seal Itachi had never heard of before. It had vanished the wall supporting it, to the ninja's surprise.

Shortly after, they'd encountered another, similar puzzle, then another again. The theme linking the various challenges had helped: the whole maze seemed centred around the five Elements, so it had been easy for Itachi to select the right route, simply by avoiding the passageways dedicated to elements whose Glyph they had already passed.

Eventually they'd found themselves in a vast, dim area, where a series of glowing spheres had been lying about and an etched design had covered the floor, with holes the size of the spheres in key points of it.

Harry had quickly figured out that they had to match the colour to the symbol, once again based on the elements. Whenever they put a right sphere in the right hole, lines of energy alighted on the floor, making the biggest Glyph so far take form on the floor of the cave.

Itachi had hesitated before activating the last connecting line. All his instincts had been screaming at him to expect something bad upon completion of the figure.

Harry unfortunately didn’t have such honed instincts. He had happily pushed the last sphere into position.

The completed Glyph had flared with coloured lights – purple chased by green bleeding into blinding white – and the daunting music they had almost tuned out had spiked suddenly, overwhelmingly.

With a quiet rumble, the lights of the Glyph had shot upwards in piercing, vertical rays.

Harry had cried out, momentarily blinded, but Itachis’ training had allowed him to not be bothered by the flashy technique. Smoothly, he had grabbed Harry and jumped him out of the way and behind the relative safety of a rocky boulder, before turning to face the monstrous creature that had, somehow, been summoned, with a resigned sigh.

It had been an impressive, fiery figure: an enormous winged creature of smoke, with brown skin and long horns and claws, and spouting  scorching  flames, hot and hungry enough to consume all they touched and turn the world to ashes.

Itachi had never even imagined something like it could exist.

It had roared so loud that the ground had trembled and rising flames had bathed its bulky frame, spiking up all around it arrestingly.

Itachi had braced himself and when the burning beast had abruptly slashed the boulder protecting Harry with a fiery claw, he had been ready to intercept it, shoving his charge behind him, protecting him from all harm; and he had instantly retaliated, a volley of kunai nailing the huge, brown body, eliciting a pained howl.

He'd started running along the wall of the cave, keeping up his barrage, drawing the attention of the creature away from Harry's hiding place.

The beast had roared again and thrown a hastily gathered ball of flames at him, but with his speed and reflexes, it had been easy to avoid the blast.

Face impassive, he had concentrated fully on the battle, choosing and discarding strategies with quickness. It was reasonable to expect a fire elemental to be weak to water, so he had displayed his unfortunately not so vast knowledge of Water Techniques, aiming a pressurized jet of water straight at the creature.

It had warmed almost to boiling point in the few seconds it had taken it to cover the distance between him and his opponent, steam already rising from it, weakening the attack as part of it evaporated, but when it had reached its target, it had struck true.

The creature of fire had cried a long moan and Itachi had fallen back lightly, still on guard. Unfortunately, instead of being defeated, the monster… had changed.

All his flames had died out abruptly and it had fallen to pieces, blackened and charred, collapsing to the ground, where, however, it had reformed even as it crumbled into a stocky mass of stones, loosely resembling a bull but with the legs of a feline, all made of hard rock.

A mere stomping of one of his huge rocky paws had been enough to provoke an earthquake. Itachi had been forced to use chakra to maintain his balance and Harry had cried out in fear from the other side of the cave, dangling from a spike of rock he'd been pushed off of, his Rod cluttering away from him.

Thankfully Lightning Techniques had always featured prominently in Itachi's arsenal, so he had the advantage against this earth elemental. The piercing damage of the wave of lightning bolts he had shot at it had broken the creature apart with ease: the rock had shattered and crumbled under his finishing kicks until the creature had fused and melted, dripping to the floor in a diluted puddle that had slowly morphed into a fluid waterwave, raising again and gathering momentum, towering over him, gaining a sort of vaguely serpentine form.

Resigned to leaving Harry more or less to his own devices for the moment, Itachi had slammed his hand into the ground, raising an Earth Wall to protect them both from the incoming water blast, and forced his battered body to ignore his growing fatigue. Only his unnatural speed had allowed him to form the lengthy sequence of handsigns needed quickly enough that the Water Dragon he’d copied on a mission in Mist had been evoked in the nick of time to contrast the threat. The watery constructions had clashed into each other with a great, noisy splash.

He had not been at all surprised when crackling lightning had started running up and down the watery limbs, turning more and more water into electricity with every passage, until a vaguely bird-like figure could be guessed, not defined or corporeal but all too real and dangerous, made of running lightning energy, clear and bright. He’d guessed by now that the terrible opponent would switch through all the elements. Hopefully just the basic ones. At least what had been left after this had been the best match for his abilities. He had just had to hope that he would have enough chakra reserves to outlast the monster.

In the meanwhile, his mastery of Wind Techniques being even lesser than of Water ones, Itachi had had no choice but to resort to physical attacks. Thankfully, while he generally preferred more sophisticated and discreet methods, he could, when needed, unleash brute, devastating power through chakra-enhanced hits.

He had jumped as far away from Harry as possible, however. Lightning users were generally faster than any other: he had known he would most likely not be able to evade the creature’s attack that time, and he hadn't wanted Harry to be electrocuted, not even just in a sideswipe.

The lightning attack had slammed into him, alighting his nerve endings with pain. It had  _hurt…_

His impassive mask had shattered for an instant and he had vacillated. Harry’s terrified, painfilled cry had resounded in his ears. Panic had jolted through him. Had his charge been hurt after all?

But a moment later he'd realized that Harry's cry were morphing into something else... a rhyme?... something had been glowing at the edge of his vision, dark purple streaks and white stars drawing an illusionary sphere around him... and then cool relief had spread through his body... his vision had cleared, his balance steadied.

On the other side of the monster, he'd caught sight of Harry bracing himself in what looked like a finishing stance, his Rod glowing with slowly fading energy. With a jolt of shock, he'd realized that his companion had  _healed_ him: casual chatters Harry had shared with him countless times about 'white magic', that he'd not taken into too much consideration, suddenly had acquired a whole new importance.

But it hadn't been the time to wonder about the other boy: the creature had been charging him, sparks of lightning growing at its command, and whatever his power, Harry's lack of training had made it impossible for him to avoid the attack.

Spurred by his panic, Itachi’s retaliatory technique had sprouted a spear of lightning from his mouth, and he'd put enough destructive power in it to pierce the crackling form just an instant before it reached Harry and thunderously nail it to the rock walls behind, which had cracked and crumbled under the impact.

Panting, Itachi had painstakingly climbed to his feet, feeling woozy with the loss of chakra, but a whole lot better than he'd expected: somehow, all of his minor injuries, the scrapes and bruises that slowly accumulated, had been fully healed. It had amazed him almost to the point of distraction.

Fortunately, the hit had been puissant enough and the yet again reforming creature had retreated into the shadows. Itachi could barely see its outline and that had told him that his genetic Eye Technique had automatically switched off, probably because he was reaching the end of his chakra capacity. There had been no mistaking the tornadoes it had been raising at its sides however, this had to be the wind incarnation.

Weary, Itachi had forced himself to stand up, locking away his pain and gathering his chakra to reactivate his hated Sharingan, ignoring his ever growing exhaustion.

Wind was the most dangerous element, but also the one he could contrast the most easily. Fire affinity was a mark of his line after all.

Determined to stop the monster before it could launch any other attack that might have a chance to hurt his charge, Itachi had compressed as much chakra as he could still afford to inside his body and skilfully released it into a dragon-shaped fireball of devastating potency. Its power and reliability made this one of his favourite techniques and the wind currents of his opponents had only worked in his favour, feeding the flames.

The blast had been something to behold.

Itachi’s vision had obscured and his body had slid slowly to the floor. A deep, booming voice had resounded, oddly distant: “...I shall serve you, Summoner…”

Had he remembered how to, he would have smiled. Mission accomplished.

Then thin arms had closed around him and he had heard sobs, his name chocked out among them… Harry? Why was he crying? Was he hurt? He hoped not… he couldn’t muster any energy to help him… Had Itachi failed after all? Had Harry been caught in the last backlash perhaps? He had fought against the blackness raising all around him… he had to make sure Harry was alright…

The cool relief had returned, pouring through his body just as soothingly as it had during the battle... so odd... he really should have paid more attention to Harry's chatter...

He'd come slowly to his senses, realizing that he lay on the ground, that someone was sobbing: “Itachi… please…“

Then he'd realized he was being held close to Harry’s lean body. Sounds of someone rummaging frenetically nearby... a bottle brought to his lips... his hearing had been coming and going “Please… please drink this… from O’aka… feel better…”

Confused, Itachi had tried to tell him: “Doesn’t matter… I'm... not important...”

“Don't!” had cried Harry, frantic. “Don't ever say that!”

“But...”

“You’re important to _me!_ ” had shouted Harry, tears in his green eyes. He had looked so desperate, so pain-filled, that Itachi’s breath had caught. “You’re important to me, Itachi,” had repeated the child, brokenly.

For a long moment, Itachi had been too stunned to react.

Then he’d drunk, and leant back to contemplate his young companion, and finally given a tiny nod – an acknowledgement of the disorienting revelation.

Harry’s tremulous smile had been as beautiful as the sun dancing through the leaves, back home…

From then on, Itachi had been more careful with his own life. Nothing would ever stop him from taking the blows directed at his Lord Summoner, or laying his life down for him if it was ever needed, but he was careful not to throw it away.

He glanced to his side again and could easily guess the other teen's knowing gaze in the darkness.

“You’re still important to me,” said Harry. “You always will be.”

Itachi didn’t smile outwardly, he never did, but he relaxed completely, like he only ever did in Harry’s company.

And as always, his Lord Summoner understood.


	9. Duty of Every Summoner

Scar grimaced as yet another of the ‘ghosts’ joined the babbling group crowding the Summoner.

The silvery, see-through creatures unnerved him. Badly. He’d seen some horrifying things… homunculi… deformed experiments... empty objects with independent thought... animated corpses... but somehow, he found these...  _spectres._ .. the most disturbing. 

‘Unsent’, Harry had called them.

Even their name was unnerving.

Their Summoner had explained, the previous night after they'd retreated to the rooms they'd been given, that they were souls that had not accepted their own death and refused or been unable to ‘go on’.

“Why the hell would they stick around?” had cried Seifer, slashing air with his weapon like he always did when something upset him.

Scar had snorted silently.

Why indeed? He didn’t need to ask this question. He knew all too well. That Seifer could be perplexed by the idea certainly spoke of his youth. For all his cynicism and sarcasm, for all his skills and smarts, the blond was still such a child.

The quest for immortality was so common… so foolish… so human.

Even his own people, whose religion had for centuries forbidden such lines of thoughts, had not been immune to the allure, if not of lingering in the world, at least of keeping their loved ones close forever.

In fact, he probably shouldn't have been so shocked by these pearly souls refusing their own death and stubbornly clinging to life. Well... existence, at any rate.

Countless had tried to cheat death in innumerable ways. So why not this?

It still unnerved him though and he would have much preferred them to keep away from his Summoner.

Unfortunately, the numerous spectres seemed instead determined to cling to Harry.

The main reason why the ghosts were crowding the Lord Summoner was an offer he'd made the previous night, just before leaving the banquet held in his honour – which, in Scar's opinion, hadn't ended a minute too soon. If he never had to attend such a thing again, he would count himself blessed! 

The students gawking and loudly whispering their sappy and ignorant gossip the whole bloody time, he could have coped with: he'd been steeling himself for the task of bearing with their silliness ever since he'd found out they were going to a school.

But politicians?

Those he'd have gladly done without.

How Harry could remain politely neutral in the face of their greedy pettiness and narrow-minded egocentrism, Scar didn't know. Their nonsensical nattering had made him itch to break some bones. They talked to the Summoner endlessly in a saccharine adulatory tone of voice,  obviously trying to get on his good side, and managed to slip a boisterous self-aggrandizing comment every two sentences – clearly they liked to talk about themselves. Then there were the giggly and flirty 'wives of' – Scar had lost count of how many attempts at getting unnecessarily close to the Summoner his fellow Guardians and he had had to stifle with glares and hissed threats (or, in Seifer's case, by redirecting their irritating admiration upon himself).

Scar had been unspeakably glad to be leaving them, along with all their annoying questions about the Summoner's personal life, the blatant requests to support this or that absurd charity or cause, and the ridiculous claims of their own prominence and power.

Nor had the previous evening been enough! This morning they'd been at it again – absurd people hounding the Summoner, trying to get him to help out some complete stranger's career, or get some fawning sycophant in the newspaper... At least Scar's own impassive mask as stoic unapproachable Guardian had served him well as shield; poor Harry instead had been forced to shake hands and murmur greetings for the better part of the morning, the only relief, if it could be considered such, the time he'd spent giving the speech he'd been roped into holding for the assembled students.

Which had been magnificent: Harry had cut a striking figure in his preferred cobalt blue outfit, standing on a dais in front of hundreds of children and adults, with his odd orange goggles raised above his forehead to keep his unruly hair in check. Seifer, who had remained straight and alert a step behind him, the whole time eyeing the crowd closely, looking for any hostiles like the perfect bodyguard, had added to the dramatic picture too.

The speech itself, delivered in the Summoner's most awe-inspiring voice – steadfast and gentle at once, the tone Harry reserved for the moments when he 'acted the part' for the people they met in their travels – was the kind that would nestle in the listeners' hearts and hardly be forgotten: the words unrolling over the reverent audience would likely be carried to the grave by each and every one of them, so strong had been their impact.

Scar found himself shaking his head in wonder every time, when Harry went into 'Summoner mode': in sharp contrast with his often irritating or childish bouts of everyday attitude, whenever he fell into the role of Summoner he displayed wisdom and maturity that would have shocked Scar, had he seen them in someone else that young. Yet the “Lord Summoner's” age was not so easily definable as “Harry's”: some measure of experience appeared in his eyes and behaviour when he assumed his role that belied his youth. Scar put it down to the Summoner's peculiar and almost incomprehensible relationship with the ageless, immortal Aeons.

The message of the speech, as was often the case with Harry, was at once extremely simple and nowhere near easy.

The importance of friendship and unity... 'Sticking together, helping each other' - that was the alpha and omega of Harry's take on life. His Guardians had certainly been subjected to passionate speeches on the matter often enough, not that they minded. Their very lives as they were now were proof of it after all: despite their less than ideal backgrounds, despite their tendency towards being lone wolves, despite their striking differences, they had become as close and as tight as a family. Thanks to Harry.

“ Children see you as a hero,” had told him the Headmaster - and Harry had promptly turned the table on the students: “You don't need awesome powers, or fantastical riches, or unheard-of skills to be a hero,” his voice had echoed in the enraptured silence, “you don't need to fight crime or rule over thousands: a hero is anyone who tries to make a difference and believe me, even an everyday person can change the world for the better. A Healer who cures a terrible illness. A Designer who invents a product that makes life easier for many people. A Trader who shares unusual goods all over the world... Every one of you can be a hero. But one thing I am positive about is that no-one can do it on their own.  As someone once told me... _t_ _ here are some things you can't do alone. But they become easy with friends beside you. _ Remember that. Cherish your friends, make new ones; and when the time comes to walk into the darkness, do it together...”

Harry had confessed at the end of the lecture that a lot of his speech had been inspired by a similar one he'd heard as a child, from three 'heroes' who were, apparently, some of the most admired leaders of his home world.

It didn't change the fact that it would never have had the impact it had if Harry hadn't believed utterly and completely in every single word. That faith shone through every look and gesture he offered the students and made it all the more awe-inspiring.

It was a pity that Scar had only been able to hear bits and pieces of it and had been distracted for most of the morning. Unavoidable, however. Normally he enjoyed these moments in which Harry's odd wisdom made him look ageless and otherworldly, but his duty as Guardian came before anything and that morning both he and Itachi had been preoccupied with another task.

Namely, figuring out why their Summoner's looks had completely shocked most of the adults they'd met in this fancy castle.

The reactions when, just before taking his seat at the feast, Harry had tossed back his hood and raised his weird goggles over his forehead, using them to hold back his unruly black bangs, had been completely unexpected. Revealing his face – his green eyes especially – had drawn startled gasps and frantic mutterings and Scar's sharp eyes had narrowed as he took in the unanticipated responses: shock... disbelief... surliness here and there, some measure of worry, even... happiness, hope, a couple instances of elation... a lot of general upset – and all in the space of a few heartbeats.

One thing had appeared sure: his looks were familiar to the older generation at least. And offering them Harry's name had certainly made an impression!

Scar and Itachi had exchanged a brief, meaningful glance, as usual agreeing perfectly without the need for words. It was imperative that they found out what that was all about.

Despite their efforts, though – efforts to which they'd dedicated the better part of the morning – they hadn't been able to get a straight answer yet and it didn't sit well with him. Some half-buried instinct told him that this was important, but everybody seemed to have clammed up completely. It was frustrating, and worrisome.

At least, Harry had born it all more calmly than Scar could have ever imagined, both that morning and the previous evening; and when the feast had finally – finally – been drawing to an end, he'd surprised everybody, including his own Guardians, by turning to the Headmaster and saying: “If you would allow me, Professor Dumbledore, I would be grateful for the opportunity to make a small offer...”

The Headmaster, who'd been thoughtful and meditative the whole time after seeing Harry's face (as well as happy and guilty and calculating, which was disturbing), had recovered in an instant all of his exuberance: “Of course! Of course! In fact,” his eyes had started twinkling madly, to Scar's mild alarm, and that had been when he'd trapped them in the speech-giving: “if I may presume... I was hoping you would be willing to speak to the children...”

“ ...speak to the children?” had echoed Harry a little perplexed.

“ Of course!” had enthused the Headmaster. “It is very encouraging when someone famous and admired gives a speech, after all. You are, without a doubt, a role model for all of us... the students see you as a hero and I am sure that they would be enthusiastic about a few words from you! Perhaps a little demonstration, even...”

The Summoner had blinked, surprised, but had quickly recovered: “Oh, hum, sure... right, uh... how about tomorrow morning then?”

“ That sounds perfect,” had smiled the old Headmaster – and thus they'd been set up for a less than interesting way to spend the morning, no matter how riveting Harry's charisma could make a speech; but Scar had refrained from complaining. It wasn't his place, for one, and for two, Seifer did it better.

Then the Headmaster, remembering the Summoner's request, had stood and raised a hand, instantly commanding silence from the rows and rows of teenaged students.

“ We truly are living in wondrous times!” he'd exclaimed joyously, making Scar roll his eyes, albeit discreetly. The man  _ felt _ powerful, was clearly intelligent, but he acted too much like a politician for someone who was supposed to be head of a school. “The coming of a Lord Summoner is a rare event and in fact, it hasn't happened for centuries. It is a great honour for our school to be hosting such a guest and I know that you will all extend every courtesy to our guests while they are with us. And now, without further ado, it is my very great pleasure to present you... the Lord Summoner Harry.” 

He'd kept smiling winsomely as he'd sat again and gestured for Harry to step up and the glint of – was that  _ pride? _ \- in his eyes as he mentioned the Summoner's name gave Scar a very uneasy feeling.

Harry had hesitated only a moment before nodding graciously and then had stood to address the gathered students. “Thank you for your kind welcome. I have travelled a lot in my life and each stop was, in its own way, unforgettable. I can already tell that Hogwarts, too, will be a visit I will cherish in memory for as long as I live.”

There had been a smattering of applause at that.  At every table, Scar could see people either gazing raptly, or else whispering fervently to their neighbours. But then Harry had spoken again, and the Hall had quieted once more.

“ I will hold a brief conference tomorrow in the morning, so if you have any questions for me, you'll have a chance to ask them then. Also... I wish to extend an invitation to all of the unresting spirits.” 

He'd sought out with his gaze the four translucent figures at the long House tables and told them calmly: “I will perform a Sending tomorrow.”

Instantly there had been an uproar from the spirits present (and Scar was still grimacing with shock that they were allowed near children) as well as from the confused humans.

To the shock of many, a pearly-white see-through figure of a fat, short man with a habit held by a rope belt and a transparent mug in his hand had streaked through the Hall, heedless of what and who he was running through – literally – and shouting about having to 'tell everybody else immediately!'

Not everybody had looked pleased however. A tall transparent woman wearing a floor-length cloak, who, Scar thought with a brief pang of old regret, would have been as beautiful as Lust had she not looked so haughty and arrogant, was screeching her upset and when the remaining two ghosts, two gentlemen if Scar was to guess, had tried to approach her, she'd fled, her whitish waist-length hair flapping dramatically.

The two male spectres had sighed, then bowed low to the Summoner before leaving the Hall to track her.

The confusion had only increased, with everybody wondering and speculating ever more loudly. Harry had looked, Scar'd noticed, rather flabbergasted; but then he tended to consider as normal things that to most people were beyond even imagination. He probably couldn't understand how mind-boggling most of his life was to others. Part of his charm, in Scar's opinion.

The Headmaster had regained order with a loud bang from his wand, that'd made Seifer jump and glare at him and Itachi and Scar twitch, though he doubted anyone had taken notice; then he'd politely asked the Summoner to explain.

Harry had shaken his head in mild shock: “I... do not understand this uproar. I merely wish to offer a Sending to the Unsent...”

“ A... Sending?” had frowned the Deputy Headmistress, the old, stern lady who had welcomed them to the castle, who'd asked curiously: “What is that?”

Many other adults were interestedly listening in, teachers and politicians alike; the children, on the other hand, had gone back to excitedly discussing the peculiar evening among each other, sharing their awe for the Summoner and his Guardians alike.

Harry had stayed silent for a long moment, brow furrowed and eyes distant, likely gathering his thoughts for the answer.

Then, slowly, but with calm confidence, had explained: “The dead need guidance. Not all of them, of course, but... often, especially if their death was unexpected, or violent, if their taste for life is still strong enough that they yearn to live on and resent those still alive... filled with grief over their own death, they refuse to face their fate. And so they linger...”

“We know what a ghost is,” had grumbled acidly an unpleasant-looking wizard with dark, oily hair that had done little but glaring furiously at Harry from the moment he'd revealed his face, thus gaining himself a place on the Guardians' ' _to carefully keep under observation since we cannot simply kill him, unfortunately'_ list. 

Harry had regarded him levelly: “But it is not what they crave, that tarriance; merely a shadow of the existence they once knew... because of that, they envy the living. And in time, that envy can turn to anger, even hate.”

The Headmaster had frowned: “None of our ghosts are in any way violent or...”

“I do not doubt it, Headmaster,” had interrupted the Summoner, “however, it is not a good existence, by any reckoning. Nor is it healthy for those souls: should they remain in the world for too long, they might become fiends that prey on the living. I have seen it happen... And even if their will is strong enough not to fall into mindlessness, is it not right to give them release? What I am offering is a freeing Ritual... the Sending takes them to the Farplane, where they may rest in peace.”

After a moment of silence, he'd added, a little edgily: “It is part of the duty of every Summoner.”

Most of the adults had looked either perplexed or fascinated, or both.

“ Well, if that is the case...” the Headmaster had trailed off with a curious mix of uncertainty and eagerness. “However, the members of all Houses' Quidditch teams have organized a friendly match in your honour, that is our sport, you know, a much loved one, played on flying broomsticks... the match is to be held tomorrow, right after lunch, and will be preceded by a show of talents our Clubs have prepared: surely you won't disappoint the children by denying us your presence...?”

Scar – and, he was sure, Itachi and Seifer too – had mentally groaned at the idea of another very public, no doubt very crowded event they couldn't get out of, where security would be a nightmare and the entertainment value likely non-existent.

Which had turned out to be true for him at least; the stands surrounding the pitch had been crowded with wildly cheering people, continually jumping up and down and waving arms and flags, far too close for comfort. The game itself had made no sense to the Ishvalan; Harry though had looked intrigued and kept muttering comparisons to 'blitzball', whatever that was. When he'd congratulated both teams at the end, Scar could tell it wasn't just his usual I'm-dealing-with-the-public politeness: he had enjoyed the match.

The previous evening however the Summoner had let all mentions of odd flying sports fall aside, and merely thanked the school at large with perfect politeness, assuring the Headmaster that after the match would be soon enough for the Sending.

“ Will you need us to provide anything...?” had asked the Deputy Headistress. “And where do you wish to... perform, this... ceremony?”

Harry had smiled just a little:  “On the lake would be best, I think” he had replied, and so here they were this sunny afternoon, making their way through a bright green lawn towards the majestic body of water nearby the castle.

The place was admittedly beautiful.

Born and bred on desert soil, Scar was always at once yearning and uneasy when confronted with green lands, where clear waters abounded and the harshness of rocks and sand was hidden under the lush of softly rolling meadows. Some part of him felt almost as if the resilience and strict codes of conduct his people had always prided themselves in, became diluted and weakened by the lure of relaxation a flowery grassland offered.

Yet at the same time, he could not deny that the sunny lake banks were a wonderful corner of dreamland.

The only drawbacks he could bring himself to find were strategic: he knew his fellow Guardians would be just as displeased as him with the open expanse and number of people there. Crowds weren't the optimal conditions to ensure the protection of their charge. By far.

Itachi, he could see it, was silently fuming, on edge with all these  _armed civilians_ so close. Not that it was easy to tell. He was perfectly relaxed and perfectly poised - on the surface. Scar knew better by now, however.

Seifer... was basking in the giggling admiration of a bunch of silly girls. Predictably.

Scar noticed however that the blond's sharp gaze was sweeping the area for potential threats anyway: he might be a cocky attention-seeking brat, but he was also a powerful, well-trained elite mercenary and damn good at the job.

Scar hid his annoyance at  _yet another_ useless politician, who like many others had for some reason felt it his due to remain long after he'd overstayed any usefulness, pompously approaching the Lord Summoner, so full of his own self-inflated importance that Scar was surprised he didn't start floating like an obnoxious, rotund, gas-filled balloon. 

He didn't let his mind wander, though: his eyes stayed sharp, ready to catch even the slightest hint of a possible threat.

Not that he expected anything untoward to happen. So far, this visit had gone pretty smoothly. The place didn't seem in the least hostile and most people looked too intimidated and awed by the Summoner to even approach, thankfully: only the stupidest annoying schemers and those  _ghosts_ did .

However just because the place appeared safe didn't mean he would lower his guard even for a minute.  He  _would_ ensure his Lord Summoner's safety. At any cost.

One of the silvery, transparent figures sailed out of the crowd, his bearing impressively regal despite the fact that it was floating, and Scar clenched his teeth.

It was an imposing man, gaunt and very pale, with wide, sunken black eyes. Scar recognized one of the gentlemen that were at the feast the previous evening. In the daylight, the fact that his pearly-white robes were covered in silver bloodstains was definitely noticeable.

Scar examined it closely, tensing slightly when it made its way purposefully to the Summoner, scattering the others who looked at it nervously. But there was no threat in its countenance.

“My Lord Summoner...” it said in a deep, hoarse voice, bowing low. “I cannot express my gratitude for your generous offer. I am more than ready to leave this existence...”

“Of course,” answered Harry politely, bowing his head and performing the prayer with his usual grace.

“Hey, what's with the chains, grampa?” blurted Seifer, who had heard of good manners and decided they were a not altogether desirable optional in life. Scar rolled his eyes.

The ghost glowered at the impertinent youth, but whatever he might have said was interrupted by a female voice ringing out with loud bitterness: “He wears them in penance!”

“Helena!” cried the ghost in mild shock. 

“Don't you dare!” The spectral woman of the night before sailed out of the crowd like an avenging angel. “Don't – you – _dare_ – use my given name! You have no right... and I can't believe you – I can't believe you would choose to move on when-”

“Helena, for the love of-”

“Hold your tongue!” she shrieked.

“Helena! How can you be so unreasonable! For so long we have lingered – and to what end!”

“You dare ask...?”

“Your anger has not relented...”

“Of course not!”

“...my guilt has not abated!”

“It better not!”

“I am tired, Helena. Tired of this all... I have repented. I want _peace,”_ the translucent gentleman stressed.

Scar's eyes swept the sea of ghosts, students and other gawkers around him, well aware that distractions like this could be exploited by ill-doers, but everybody was gazing transfixed at the fighting spirits, holding their breath before the unfolding drama.

“Don't forget it, Baron! I know what you've done! I know who you truly are! Violent, hot-tempered...”

“Ten centuries, Helena! Ten centuries of _this_...” the transparent chains rattled soundlessly. “What man would still be the same after so long?”

“If you think I've forgotten...”

“How far do you intend to take your revenge, Helena?”

“Revenge! Is this what you think I'm doing?”

“What else do you call it?”

“Justice!”

“This is no justice! Neither you nor I have any right to use that word!”

“You certainly have not! I remember, Baron! I remember what you did... how you tracked me to the forest where I was hiding and when I refused to return with you...”

“I sinned, and every hour of every day since I have regretted my foolish actions, but-”

“You stabbed me!” she shrieked, drowning his pleading explanations. 

Gasps rose from the crowd, dismayed and avid at once.

“You're a murderer!” she accused.

“And you're a thief!” retorted the Baron snappishly, drawing more gasps from the onlookers.

“And you're both dead,” intervened the Summoner quietly, serenely. 

Somehow, his calm voice echoed clearly and managed to cut through the entire scene and freeze everybody.

“You are dead,” Harry reiterated gently. “Let grudges and wishes fade... let rancour and vindictiveness be things of the past... you no longer belong in this world...”

It was that, Scar thought, that calm, that even tone of truth, that had always struck him the most about his Lord Summoner. He had met children too mature for their age – the Fullmetal Alchemist and his cat-loving brother came to mind – but even they burned with passion and contradictory emotions. Of course, Harry too had his fair share of teenage tantrums and foolish fun – and Seifer had been a bad, bad influence in that area – but when the situation called for it...

He could manage a level of serenity and impartiality that, in Scar's experience, was almost unreachable. Especially when discussing death.

Too bad some people couldn't realize what a precious gift this composed wisdom was when the Summoner offered to share it.

The ghastly lady was still screeching: “You were jealous of my freedom! You couldn't accept-”

But the gentleman seemed to have had enough at last and cut her off roaring: “I'm tired of your self-righteous recriminations. Tired of lingering only to be berated and bedevilled. I want peace, and  _so should you_ ! It is time to move on!”

“And be forever forgotten?” she yelled, furious and scared. “You would like that, wouldn't you? For your sins to be washed away from memory... but I, _I don't want to disappear!_ ”

Scar closed his eyes with a heavy feeling of resignation wrapped around him. Of course,  _that_ was the problem in the end. So, so human...

Suddenly Harry moved forth, determination in every step: he placed himself between the two and stared down the enraged, frightened woman, unintimidated by her wild expression and eerily twisting long hair.

“I'm going to ask you something, Lady,” said the Summoner severely, “and I expect a honest answer. Is this truly what you want? _This_? To  walk palely where your living self once trod? To forever endure this feeble imitation of life?”

“ You don't understand...”

“ You speak with dread of being forgotten. But are you remembered after all? No-one here knows your name or your story, do they?”

She faltered: “The Baron...”

“ You don't want him to move on because you know he is the last to bear the memory of what you were,” said the Summoner matter-of-factly. “Selfish.”

She backed away from him, shooting wild looks at the students and teachers gathered and watching: “It is his penance to...”

“ You're dead,” repeated Harry once more, as patient and as unmoving as a granite rock. “Penance, sins, anger, regrets... None of that matters anymore.”

“ I don't want to disappear,” hissed the woman desperately, hunching on herself.

The Summoner took another step toward her and lowered his voice to a soothing, gentle tone: “ Our dead are never lost to us, until we have forgotten them. Yet you, Lady... you are lost already and it isn't death that makes you so. Here you are, but while the imprint of your spirit lingers, what makes you  _ you _ is forgotten; too hidden beneath your shame and remorse, too jealously guarded to be known, to be remembered. You are here, yet you are already gone, in every way that counts. So what is the point?”

A heart-wrenching sob tore itself from the ghost.

“ Oh, Helena...” moaned the Baron, hovering worriedly. She refused to let him close, though, and curled even more onto herself.

“ Dear lady, I ask you to have the courage of placing your life  in the memory of the living,” coaxed the Summoner. “Tell us your story, Lady Helena... tell it in full, the way it should be remembered. No lies, no omissions, no twisted representations of yourself: tell us about  _ you _ . And then... then, let go. We will remember, for that is for the living to do. And you... will be at peace.”

There was a long silence. It felt as if the world itself was holding its breath, waiting on the spirit's decision.

Then, a whisper:  “I am scared.”

“ It is not uncommon to be afraid of death,” Harry's voice took on a reassuring timbre. “As children fear to go in the dark, so adults fear to walk to their death, and much for the same reason: because we do not know what awaits us there. Yet just like  that natural fear of darkness in children is increased by tales, so is our fear of death. Fear, too, will vanish when you accept your passing. It is an emotion for the livings... let it go.”

“ And if I don't want to?” a last defiance, bravado and pettiness more than anything.

“ I s it not more frightening to endure an inadequate life? Do you not think it possible that the peace awaiting you in the Farplane is a better choice after all?”

The ghost was visibly calming down and looking at the Summoner with wide, hope-filled eyes as he continued to murmur, compassionate and caring.

And that was just like Harry, thought Scar in amazement that didn't fade despite being, by now, an usual occurrence. He was always so empathetic. And by the naturalness with which he did it, it wasn't something he'd learned or been trained in. He'd been born with the ability to understand and share the feelings of another, and an instinctual desire to make things better if he but could.

It was, quite possibly, one of the reason the power of a Summoner had been entrusted to him, and also the only thing that could bring Scar to doubt his place at Harry's side.

What could he be doing so close to someone like Harry?

He was an assassin... he had seen, and done, countless horrors... he had been, at one point in life, so blinded by his grief-fuelled arrogance that he'd forgotten and trashed every value his people cherished and turned to that which had been shunned as evil just so as to do as much damage to his fellow humans as possible.

The fact that he'd been justified – or at least had felt so – didn't change the truth.

He used to be a mass murderer. Targeting Alchemists working for the state military of Amestris to avenge his people – the race of Ishbal that was exterminated during the civil war – even if it meant becoming an exile and severing his ties to the very people he wished to avenge. He wouldn't deny it – he had chosen that path, that crime, and accepted the responsibility of his evildoings as the price for his revenge.

When they'd first met, Harry had naively asked whether 'Scar' was his actual name: “I have no name,” had been his only answer.

And he didn't. The alias the world used was derived from the prominent X-shaped scar that decorated his brow. His birth name no longer had any meaning, no longer had any value. He'd lost it along with everything else – his brother, his people, his faith, his life...

The fact that he had, somehow, been granted a second chance, a chance at redemption and meaningful purpose, at his Lord Summoner’s side, was a fragile miracle that he feared might be smashed into cutting shards if exposed to the harsh reality of his past. A past he did his best to keep from Harry - and he was grateful that his Lord never asked.

It was one of the reasons he almost never talked. His silence was a bubble encasing the horrors he carried within his memory, not to protect them, but to spare the world, and most of all his elected charge, from experiencing them, even second hand.

Itachi understood. His fellow Guardian had a similar horror to contend with in his past. Not that he knew for sure what it was – Itachi, too, did not talk – but he could recognize it in the other's black eyes.

No two burdens of grief and guilt could be alike, but they did breed empathy: a shared kinship beyond those untouched by those kind of tragedies.

Even Seifer, for all his angsty dramatics, was still a child compared to them. He cried out loud for attention and affection. They were beyond that, too broken to even hope.

In spite of Harry.

Yes, his past was dark with terrible shadows that often reached out of his tormented heart to taint his view of the world – and of himself.

But Harry never seemed bothered by it. Or by Scar's stubborn, defeated silence.

The Summoner that had somehow swept him up and made him a part of his life, was a bright, bright soul. He was like an aglow comet – and they, the tail that followed that glow, drawn in and captivated.

Scar's mind wandered down the meanders of memory to the first time he'd seen the full strength of Harry's bright compassion...

It had been in the  war-torn desert city of Lior. He'd been there with the idea of implementing his ultimate plan to stop the action of the State Military, a plan born of the gruelling studies that had at long last brought him to realize the true nature of his arm as an incomplete Philosopher's Stone.

He'd been all set to inscribe a gigantic transmutation circle around the city itself but in the end, he'd never got to it, because while he was doing a round to check that no obstacles would impede him, he'd by chance  walked out of a ruined tunnel and into a wide, circular room, right on time to see a monstrous creature run out of the shadows and through the dimly lit stone floor.

The room had had a ceiling higher than two floors and columns lining it in a wide circumference, supporting ornate but decaying balconies, and the weird creature had climbed a column with ferocity and launched itself in a mad run along the railings, going round and round the room so fast it was dizzying to follow.

A chimera, he'd realized with a silent hiss: a creature synthesized by alchemically crossing two or more dissimilar living beings into a new, complete form displaying attributes of its 'components'. The realization had been accompanied by the usual twinge of horror: he'd met many of the horrid things, as they were well-suited for guard duty and were frequently positioned as such by the State Military, but the aberrations never failed to fuel his hatred of the State Alchemists.

Then his attention had been caught by two figures stepping cautiously forth.

Scar had ignored the aberration and tuned out its furious growls and cries, focusing instead on the two strangers, silently assessing them.

They were young, in their early teens he guessed, but the Elrich brothers had taught him that youth was not enough of a reason to lower his guard. One of them moved like a seasoned martial artist anyway.

The other... well, he'd admit easily that his first impression of the Lord Summoner had been of an oddball. Not only had he been wearing orange goggles: his cerulean blue clothes had been riddled with strings and leather straps and little stones and sparkly bits sewn in and he didn't even know what else. On top of that, he had been holding an extremely elaborated staff out horizontally, about as high as his shoulders, and Scar could have sworn that the thing had been humming.

The blue-clad boy had shouted something that sounded like a rhyme: “ _Gift us with speed, make swift our limbs!”_ and the giant, fluorescent, pink and gold outline of a complex clock – or maybe it was an Alchemical Circle, albeit unconventional – had appeared before the two, hovering for a long instant before vanishing into nothing. 

An instant later they'd sprung away with shocking speed, barely avoiding the monstrous body of the chimera that had launched itself at them and crash-landed right where they'd stood not a second before.

Scar had followed their flash-quick movements through the room, amazed at the sheer speed they were displaying: every gesture they'd made had seemed sped up beyond the possibility of a human body, no matter how trained.

A part of Scar's mind had busily tried to work out what kind of Alchemical mumbo-jumbo might have generated such an effect, because it simply shouldn't have been possible; but the rest of him was already propelling his body forward in a ready stance.

He'd always been good at melée tactics and his hand-to-hand skills were more than up to par with an abomination like what they had been facing. His fist had stricken true, hard and relentless.

The martial artist stranger, a tall boy with black hair held back in a low ponytail, whose appearance had not seemed the most intimidating, until Scar had met and almost shied away from the intensity of his gaze, had nodded in acknowledgement of his support. Scar had found himself reluctantly impressed with his remarkable agility and reflexes and deceptive speed. But he, too, was no slouch and he could boast significant strength and stamina.

It had taken the two a while to coordinate their attack styles, though the boy's professionalism and experience in that were such that had put him to shame; plus Scar had been disconcerted by the random interventions of the staff-wielding boy, who'd remained on the sidelines but was apparently a skilled healer – Scar's rib had been broken by a vicious lash of the creature's tail and the pain had completely disappeared in a haze of green light, courtesy of the boy and a rhyme of his about a 'fountain of health' or something.

Once they'd got a rhythm settled, it had become clear that the inhuman beast was taking quite the beating and its increasingly frantic trashing bore testimony to their close victory. When they'd managed to shatter its left front paws and it had fallen with a terrible cry, it had been over:  they'd had the monster down in a matter of seconds, Scar's own vicious combo – a flurry of kicks counterpointed by quick stabs of his arms aiming at pushing aside any blow directed at him and open up the target's vital points – perfectly integrated by the boy's volleys of sharp knife-like throwing weapons and perfectly timed bursts of fires – so controlled the Flame Alchemist himself would have been proud.

When their attack combo had come to a close, the chimera had been thoroughly trashed: broken, bruised and singed, with blood and bile splattering the floor around it, it had looked so pitifully pathetic that all Scar could think of was to put the thing out of its misery.

The staff-wielding boy, however, had stayed his hand, already raised to strike: “ _ Heal _ all wounds and  _ cure _ all illnesses, and only let the dying spirits go – that is the lore of all white mages,” he'd said softly. “ Let me try and help it.”

Scar had blinked, perplexed, but stepped back.

He'd felt... disconcerted. The words of the green-eyed boy had resonated within him, familiar, yet all but forgotten. They were a reflection of what Ishvalan values had always been... he could almost hear his mother's voice echo softly in his mind –  _Witchcraft insults Ishvala by implying that we humans can better upon His creations... but contempt and disregard for His creation is just as insulting... that is why we do not seek to destroy that which lives... there is no greater way to honour Ishvala than to offer healing or protection to His creations..._

Gently, carefully, the teen had knelt by the aberrant creature, that'd whimpered and trembled in an effort to scoot out of his reach. Scar had felt his stomach turn at how human those eyes still were. They had no business shining out of such a monstrous muzzle.

Moving deliberately slowly, the boy had put his hand on the deformed face, meeting those too human eyes without fear. Scar had admired his inner strength.  _He_ was never able to overcome the utter disgust he felt for those abominations. 

Closing his eyes, pained, he'd admitted to himself that he'd long lost his right to call himself Ishvalan. This strange boy, even with his earlier use of what had to be Alchemy, had been closer to the grace of his God than he.

A quiet murmur had come from the kneeling boy – an invocation to 'Healing Light' – and a soothing glow had followed the trail of his hand as he stroked the uneven patches of fur and scales lightly.

Then the white healing glow of the magic he was offering had coaxed a sickly green in answer from the horrid creature.

The boy had started, clearly surprised and just as clearly disturbed by the smoky green oozing out of the chimera. His voice had faltered and the strange liquid fume, almost as if sentient, had seized the weakness and risen viciously against the white, healing light, fighting it back; rallying, the teen had thrust his hand out, pushing back at the immaterial ooze, and it had become a battle.

Scar could only watch in wariness and awe as Power – alchemy? magic? willforce? - battled against the greenish heinous  _disease_ rising from the chimera, struggling to purify it. 

The monstrous creature had been enveloped in the battling lights, green evil spikes striking more and more feebly at the warm white slowly but surely overcoming them. The kneeling teen had been panting by then, his frame trembling with exhaustion and Scar had watched with growing admiration as he kept concentrating every last particle of his mind upon forcing the green back, strengthening the white; heedless of the fatigue and pain the effort was exacting from his body.

And then, with the suddenness of a taut rope snapping, the white healing glow had won and engulfed the monster in a glare too bright for human eyes to stand. Peering through his hand, that had instinctively shot up to shield his eyes from the explosion of light, Scar had seen the outline of the chimera rise in mid-air and  _change_ , evolve, mutate into something that despite retaining its mixed features, carried none of the conflict and unnaturalness of the abomination it had been. 

To this day, the Ishvalan counted as the most disturbing and at the same time the most deeply rewarding experience of his life, the witnessing of that monster transcending to Aeon status.

Rewarding... and redeeming.

Harry had been sick for days afterwards. Pale and clammy, he'd slept a lot, only slowly recuperating. His silent companion had been outwardly impassive, but Scar could divine the terror and worry that lurked in his fathomless eyes as they nursed the Summoner back to health and had done his best to be discreet and supportive at once. It had been the first step towards the harmony and trust they shared today.

By contrast, the chimera – no, the Aeon – had been simply majestic.

It no longer had a vaguely human shape, though the front legs were still too much like arms for Scar's comfort: arms that ended in sharp, gleaming claws. It now had the head of a giant eagle, with a cruel, bronze-coloured beak, and the body of a lion, covered in golden fur.

Its colours full, its health strong and its spirit indomitable, it stroke a proud, impressive figure as it hovered protectively over the three of them.

To Scar’s surprise, it showed no sign of wanting to leave, or attack them.

On the contrary, the one time they'd been threatened, by a group of military sent by Colonel Archer, they hadn't even had the time to do anything: the arresting Aeon's growl had reverberated through the very stones and the ground under them, while the entity towered over the terrified soldiers and charged a large black liquid orb that had somehow formed between its claws, before slamming it powerfully onto the battlefield. It had had a variety of effects: the frightened men had started screaming their lungs out, some clawing at their eyes, others coughing up blood mixed with a greenish-black poison; still others seemed to fall prey to devastating emotions, of desperation, of paralysing fear or of fury so blind it thrust them at their own comrades' throats with ferocious yells...

Once the military squad had been sufficiently devastated, the Aeon had loftily settled beside them once more, appearing content to lazy away.

Odd as it may seem, Scar had felt like it was giving him the good example.

The Summoner had given of himself, selflessly, to save it, to give it a future. It seemed determined to repay the generous gift with companionship and service.

Similarly, the strange boy had given him a much needed, if incredibly gentle, wake up call. 

He owed him, if nothing else, for that.

In a way... he owed him as much as the chimera did. For was not his spiritual health as important as the chimera's physical one?

He would repay him the same way.

And so Scar had stayed, becoming the Lord Summoner’s second Guardian.

He’d followed Harry into everything ever since – through more adventures and through more worlds than he had suspected could exist; to this bright green lawn at the feet of a fairy-tale castle, where a crowd of ghosts and living was listening  to the broken story of a thousand-years-dead bitter lady...

Most children had sat down in the grass, listening fascinated to the narration; and when Lady Helena was done, sobbing the last of her tale, other ghosts timidly came up: a group of gloomy women wearing tunics and long wide pieces of woollen cloth over their shoulders and heads, encircling their face; a ragged knight in a heavy-looking suit of armour, with an arrow sticking out of his forehead; a squat girl with lank hair, pimples and thick glasses; an unbelievably old thin man clutching a spectral tome to his narrow chest...

All asking for the same thing – to be listened to, to be  _remembered_ , and only then, to be freed.

And Harry just listened patiently, serenely,  without judging nor commiserating. Simply listening. 

By the time everything was said and settled, sunset was close. The lake was a still, dark teal green expanse; the black outline of the forest circling it motionless and soundless.

Everything was quiet.

No-one dared break the solemnity of the atmosphere. It was as if the world itself held its breath as Summoner Harry took a deep breath and slowly walked out on the water.

One step, two, three… his bare feet barely disrupted the water, sending small ripples out in gentle circles.

A moment of suspended awaiting.

Then, the Summoner swung his Rod, tracing a wide arc and accompanying the movement with a turn of his own body. An otherworldly tune emanated from all around it, hieratic and harrowing, growing in strength and power with every move of his waving body, with every step of the enchanting dance.

The Sending had begun.

The music rose and fell with the Summoner's movements, the same eerie hummed tune that Scar had had occasion to hear a few times, whenever Harry used his Rod to the fullest: it always gave him the creeps, resonating in places inside him where music had no business reaching.

The Rod traced circles and arcs around Harry's turning body as he gathered and called to him the Unsent spirits.

Flames of blue fire sprung into existence, scattered among the awed crowd, and from the gathered ghosts quiet cries of relief and desperate longing arose, while their appearances melted slowly into shining pyreflies.

On and on Harry danced, around and around where he stood on the lake, every movement more decided, more compelling, a call no spirit could go unmoved by. Scar’s own soul vibrated with longing, yet he knew he was only feeling a faint echo of the Summoner’s ritualistic dance.

Every step had a meaning, every gesture called and gathered, dissolved illusions and opened truths, as the ancient pattern of the dance continued, Harry’s movements smooth and fluid as they morphed into the next turn, the next wave or bow, the next skipping step, until with a sudden outburst of energy, the quiet lake’s water shot up, raising the Summoner above reality, sparks of foam scintillating in the reddening sunlight, matched by the pyreflies that flocked to the Rod and trailed its path through the air, weaving coloured magic – blue, green, indigo, white, grey – around the everdancing Summoner.

The water flared and fell like an impromptu fountain under his bare feet while he danced on, eyes lost into the depths of Death and Magic… his movements grew stronger and surer, faster and more energetic…

Scar’s eyes – everybody’s eyes - were riveted on the Summoner, entranced by the unbelievable spectacle.

His hair flared around his graceful movements, and more and more pyreflies rose to his call, from the waters, from the banks, and the setting sun tinted them and the water with reds and purples, orange flames and white reflexes, until Harry stood in a cocoon of water and magic like a stem in a fiery flower, and with a last, powerful stroke of his Rod, quieted.

All movement stopped abruptly, the compelling dance drawn to a sudden, mystical close.

For a long instant, only silence reigned, the world stilled at the peak of the amazing ritual, suspended. Scar knew he wasn’t even breathing.

And then a soft sigh escaped the Summoner, all tension flowing from his body, and with the small gust of breath, all pyreflies flew away, dispersed, Sent at last, to where they would find peace.

The sun gently continued his descent and a barely there breeze stroked the tree tops. The water gently settled, without splashes, quietly, and gently, even light seemed to dim after the powerful flare, becoming restful, peaceful.

Slowly, the Summoner made his way back to the ground, one step at a time, his feet provoking faint ripples as silently as at the start of the ritual.

Everyone stood there, watching him. Scar knew well the feeling everybody was sharing right now, the feeling that the Summoner's magic always arose in whoever witnessed his feats: it was strange, and somehow sad, and elating at the same time. Unsettling, and awing.

Everybody was filled with deep emotions, even the most boisterous teenagers intimidated and hushed after feeling the compelling power of the Sending brush over them, raising goosebumps with the sheer strength of the magic invoked. Perhaps a little fearful, even. There was awe and wonder in their eyes as they looked at the Summoner, and very little understanding, but deference and reverence. Many bowed, clumsily, as if compelled to show their respect.

Harry was still filled with the moving power of the Sending, Scar could see it. Tears glistened in his emerald eyes. As always, concerned for the lives lost, for the spirits’ sufferings. His compassion never ceased to amaze and shock the cynical, bitter Ishvalan.

Maybe that was why he stayed with Harry, why he was so determined to protect him at all costs?

But truthfully, it didn't matter. This was his place; Guarding his Lord Summoner was his meaning; and his fellow Guardians his family.


	10. Into the Forbidden Forest

It was early morning, so early in fact that the faint dawn was still wrapping the world in whitish haze. Seifer hated early mornings. If days had any decency, they’d start at noon!

He could understand Harry's decision to sneak out at the first lights, though. No way did he want to be trapped by those no-good willy-nilly politicians again. Even his ever-patient Summoner had been completely exasperated and that was saying something. Boy was too tolerant for his own good. Always so unfailingly polite. Bah.

Come to think of it, it might have been fun to see him lose his patience for once. Unleash an Aeon on that fat, lime-green-topped moron… ah, well. It wasn’t Harry’s style, unfortunately - so here they were, their steps echoing faintly in the cold stone corridors of this weird school.

Heading towards the Forbidden Forest, to continue their Quest at last. If all went well, they'd be on their way soon. Seifer definitely wouldn’t be sorry to leave this over-the-top cheap-fantasy-movie location! Maybe get some relaxation time in... hmm... oh, a beach would be just the thing...!

They walked briskly but unhurriedly through the evocative but drafty corridors.

The very stones of this unbelievable castle seemed to be aware of their passage and the air was brimming with excited energy. So much so that if he listened intently, he could hear the energy taking the form of a diffused humming: a powerful tune, sad and triumphant at the same time, that somehow managed to be unnerving and reassuring all in one.

He recognized it: it was the hummed music that somehow always seemed to underline Harry's 'Summoner-moments'. He wondered idly if it was a manifestation of the Aeons' magic or something. It didn't really matter much. Whatever it was, it had soon become a favourite of his. It was good to hear it.

He whistled along happily and blithely ignored Scarface's glare. That man was way too sober. No appreciation for the tastier bits of life!

Of course, he kind of had reason.

One way or another – Seifer wasn't very clear about how it had happened, and Scar probably wasn't either – it had fallen to him to be the calm, reasonable, supporting presence of their little group.

Well, there wasn't much choice, really.

Itachi was a genius but wouldn't make any decisions for himself, he would accept every proposal of Harry's as an order and obey without battling an eye; not leadership material there, despite his deadliness. As for Seifer... he was absolutely bloody awesome, of course, but he himself would recognize that he was a hot-head. As long as he didn't have to admit it out loud, of course.

Someone needed to be the voice of reason and the tall guy was the only one left, whether they liked it or not. Whether _Scar_ liked it or not.

No wonder the brooding bloke was so put out all the time.

It didn't matter. He might never say it out loud, because it would just be _not cool,_ but Seifer actually appreciated the security that having someone sensible and trustworthy to turn to provided; he could put up with that someone being sombre. When it came right down to it, he'd take sullen and level-headed over bubbly and incompetent any day.

Still. He was going to get the man drunk some day or other – as soon as he figured out how!

His sharp, well-trained senses detected a group hiding not far and he tensed, suddenly all business. A moment later he relaxed again, his cocky smile returning. Silly fangirls. To think they’d got up before dawn just to intercept him!

He winked at them as they passed their hiding spot and the girls squealed and giggled. He caught some comments: ‘sooo sexy...’ – heh, that was him – 'ooh, those eyes...!' - he smirked - ‘cool sword’ – his eye twitched in sudden irritation, his weapon was a _gunblade!_ Not that those heathen could understand the difference…

Still, it was funny as hell to watch them drool over him and stalk his steps. He had his own Treepies. Heh – imagine that!

He intercepted a disapproving glare from Itachi and just grinned, wide and sharp. Riling Stoic Kid up was one of life's refined pleasures! A cuff to the back of his head from Scar made him roll his eyes. Yeah, yeah. He knew they were on duty! No need to be sourpusses about it.

The moment they stepped into the cool humidity outside, they assumed the formation they had used upon their arrival, with the three of them surrounding Harry. Somehow, it always gave Seifer a feeling of satisfaction and accomplishment.

Despite the early hour, a surprisingly high number of students had come to watch the Summoner starting his Quest, probably hoping for some awe-inspiring show. They were going to be disappointed, though, because Harry was sure they had to go far into the Forbidden Forest and the students weren’t going to be able to see a thing.

As the name pointed out, the Forest was forbidden: strictly off limits to students. He would smirk about it if he wasn't too busy sneering at the memory of the protests the little piece of news about their intentions had garnered from their hosts.

“The Forbidden Forest!” they'd all babbled and snivelled. “Nonsense – it is far too dangerous! You can't possibly think of risking...!”

Bloody whiners. Who the hell did they think they were? Those... useless lazybones! Too dangerous. Hah! As if Guardians like them weren't perfectly able to protect their Summoner from _anything_!

In fact, Harry could probably defend himself well enough – not that he would ever need to. They weren't going to let anything happen to him. But still. He was far from helpless himself.

Too dangerous indeed!

Scar had held him back from giving the lot of them a piece of his mind – he always did, the spoilsport – but at least Harry had been adamant.

“We are here to walk through the Cloister of Trials and that is precisely what we shall do,” he'd said firmly.

“And this Cloister just so happens to be in the Forbidden Forest?” had sneered the unpleasant greasy guy that had rubbed Seifer wrong from the very start. Professor... Snake, or something equally ridiculous.

Seifer had been quite proud when Harry had levelled the unpleasant man with a glare and simply retorted with a deadpan: “Yes.”

Heh, the little Summoner had spunk.

Of course, Colour-blind Grandpa couldn't let it go: “I'm afraid you must be mistaken. I would never presume to know all the secrets of Hogwarts, of course, but I have never heard of a Cloister of Trials being hidden here!”

So he didn't know his school as well as he thought. Big deal. He was a Headmaster after all. They weren't expected to know much about their own schools. Seifer would bet Cid didn't have a clue about half the secrets of Garden either – and he'd founded the thing!

Harry, as usual, had chosen politeness – why, Seifer couldn't fathom – and spoken gently: “Nevertheless, my Rod guided me here, and I do not care to disregard its hints. Should we find no Glyphs on your grounds, Headmaster, I promise we will leave…”

“Not at all, not at all!” had been the hurried reassurance. “You and your Guardians are most welcome here! It is an unprecedented honour to host you. Please, feel free to remain as long as you wish!”

Nice to know they were valued, had thought Seifer sarcastically, even as Harry offered a polite: “You are most generous, Headmaster.”

And with that they'd left, loftily ignoring the overexcited whispers following in their wake – but of course, the hushed, enthusiastic mutterings were back first thing this morning, trailing them in a rather annoying manner.

Seifer slashed the faint dawn mist with his beloved gunblade, once, twice, just to let out the irritation that had built in him as they moved through the stone corridors and then the beautiful grounds.

At least the Forest was close...

As he'd hoped, as soon as they left behind the gaggle of early-risers, whom a few teachers were at last corralling back to the school despite the loud protests, and made it a few meters inside the majestic woods, he felt the thoughts and worries fade, being replaced by the calm and confidence the other Guardians were already filled with.

This – accompanying the Lord Summoner – was his place and every time he was reminded of it he was relieved anew that he had found it.

He'd always known he was special, destined to great things.

It had been his dream to become a Sorceress Knight, ever since childhood, precisely because he felt it was his call to devote his life to protect someone extraordinary from the dangers they would face. It had seemed like the perfect sort of life and he'd been sure that he was the perfect sort of bloke to live it.

Which he was, by the way.

To be a Sorceress' Knight... what a dream it had been!

He had believed, for a while, to have fulfilled it: when he was serving the Sorceress Edea. Yet the seriousness and devotion he had offered to Matron – not that she remembered who she was – had never been valued: he'd given her his everything, only to be cast aside.

She had been too taken with the strange young man with the cold eyes and cruel smirk, infatuated with his dangerous charm and utterly blind to how he was callously manipulating her and her ill-fated attraction. And the stranger had been all too aware of the threat Seifer posed to his influence... a true Knight, one whose bond was respected and valued by his Sorceress, would have been able to protect her even from his seductive games...

For a while, Seifer had judged him a rival; but the malevolent man had soon dispelled any such notions. He wasn't interested in the honour of serving the Sorceress: he expected to be served instead; and if Seifer had been a pitiful, controllable fool, the bastard would have likely endorsed his presence – as one of many strings to move the Sorceress as he pleased.

Seifer still wanted to scream when he thought of it – the mockery that dark-haired bastard had made of the sacred bond between Sorceress and Knight, and more, the careless way Matron, if she was still Matron at all, had accepted to throw Seifer away and replace him with a worthless, spineless puppet chosen by _that_ _man._

For a while, as the cruel manipulator's influence grew over the Sorceress and he was relegated further and further away from what should have been his rightful place, he'd tried to find something else in his life that would give meaning to his wasted efforts – fancying himself a fearsome strategist, deluding himself with tall tales of being a revolutionary; but his ragged appearance was a testimony to how little he'd believed it himself, and to how much it had torn him apart to act against his own conscience, to attack Garden of all places, to agree to bomb the only home he'd had in years. Every decision he hadn't been strong enough not to make under the command of the Sorceress, his craving for acceptance overwhelming enough to offset her weakening interest, had broken him a little more.

By the time he'd been relegated to the Lunatic Pandora, he'd been desperate for something, anything, that could return a measure of meaning to his life.

Yet the Sorceress had no longer held answers to his desperate thirst for meaning and belonging. If she ever had in the first place.

After all, the more Seifer thought of it, the less he was sure that the despicable stranger's manipulations had truly been the turning point. He suspected that it would have ended like this any way.

He had put so much faith in the Sorceress... expected her to be someone truly out of the ordinary, greater, _better_... expected her to see his true worth, and hold him dear, and take care of him as he looked after her...

She had, ultimately, disappointed him.

And left him desperate and broken, abandoned even by his friends – and oh, how it had hurt to see Fujin and Raijin hiding behind his enemies!

He'd been left to watch his rival's back as Squall walked away to his glorious future, with his bright Princess and the bunch of ragtags who hung around with him.

He'd been left behind, discarded, forgotten... just a memory, to be talked of in the past tense... it galled him that they'd probably end up talking fondly of him, the damn do-gooders, saying whatever corny nonsense they wanted – he'd heard it all before, _wasn't really a bad guy; was one of us_ – that kind of things had always irritated him to no end.

He didn't want to be a memory; but if he had to be, he'd rather be a fiery one of blazing glory, forever etched into everybody's mind as awe-inspiring and direful, not a mellowed, dying ember, growing fuzzy with time and banalities.

He'd tried, too, on his last chance to leave a mark on his world - the last bright spark of his own flame – he'd tried to achieve just that.

He'd been sent to the Lunatic Pandora, been ordered to raise the damn Pillar from the sea – an effort during which the incompetence of the soldiers he'd been saddled with had sorely tried his patience – and bring the huge, tasteless structure to Tear's Point to provoke a Lunar Cry. Squally Boy and his little clique, of course, had tried to stop him. It had almost felt good, to stand straight and proud in the face of their glowers once more – as if he was still himself... for a while at least...

He'd been a tough opponent. That much – or that little, as it were – he could still take pride in. His physical attacks had pushed those ragtags to their limits – the pink-clad Mediocre Instructor had been at death's door and the Chicken Wuss could barely stand when he was through with them – and that despite the fact that they were ganging up on him. Couldn't manage the guts to face him one on one.

He was the best!

Not even that supposedly unbeatable, legendary Guardian Force Odin they'd somehow got their hands on had been a match for him: the Zantetsuken Reverse he'd spent hours upon hours perfecting had sliced it in half.

He was the _best_.

It hadn't mattered.

His friends had turned their backs on him, the Sorceress he'd sworn himself to had thrown him away like trash... even his rival had barely spared him a glance... he'd got some pity from the gals... _pity!_... nothing more.

He deserved better than that! Didn't he?

Didn't he?

All he’d ever wanted was to be a Sorceress’ Knight… it was his romantic dream… what was wrong with it? How could it have turned out so badly?

He wanted to be accepted… needed… he wanted glory, respect, but also love… he’d thought Edea could give him that… but it had turned out all wrong…

That was when Harry had found him, at his lowest.

And unexpectedly, unbelievably, had offered him a chance at the real deal – not the empty promises of the Sorceress, but the true bond of a Protector to a Lord.

Sometimes Seifer wondered why he had.

What could possibly have pushed the little Summoner to choose him?

A Guardian was someone a Summoner could rely on completely. Someone they could trust with their life.

Sometimes he wondered, how could Harry feel like that about him?

They were only a couple dozen meters into the ancient forest when Itachi's soft voice halted them.

The lean teenager's eyes were taking in the trees, not in the least wary, but nevertheless with an alertness that Seifer wasn't feeling the need for. It immediately put him on guard. It was clear by the unusual relaxation in his attitude that Stoic Kid was at home in a forest, much more than his fellow Guardians. He must have noticed something Seifer missed.

He nodded in acceptance when Itachi slid quietly forward, taking point, and with no need for words traded places with Scar, covering the rearguard, while the white-haired man stood by the Summoner.

At least Scarface seemed back to normal today, not out of sorts like the day before.

Seifer had barely managed to enjoy the admiring looks of his fangirls, because he couldn't afford even an instant of distraction, not if his fellow Guardian wasn't one hundred percent functional.

He would have liked a chance to show off for once, thank you very much!

He looked good and he knew it; once upon a time, he would have made it a point to pose so that the sun shone off his gunblade and he appeared to his advantage to the giggling girls, and smirk at the gossiping students, basking in how they were all awe-struck at the sight of him, be it in fear or in lovesick-puppy-style.

Heh, he was awesome!

But no – Scarface had been spooked and unbalanced, so he'd had to sacrifice the cool look and forgo the chance of preening in favour of being able to keep an eye on things.

Of course, he'd found himself doing things like this like it was natural ever since he'd started travelling with Harry, somewhat to his surprise. After all, the little Summoner was... important.

Still, it was good to see Scarface wasn't as distracted today.

He wondered what had been wrong with him the day before. Scared of the ghosts, maybe? He'd certainly looked unnerved by the things.

Heh, the loser. Seifer wasn't bothered by the spirits of course – he might find them unsettling, but that was because they _were_ , duh.

Itachi paused for a long moment, breathing in the silent atmosphere thrumming with power.

Then he took one step forward and to Seifer's shock, the forest _moved_.

Trees and bushes blurred and stirred, morphing in front of their very eyes: slowly but seamlessly two diverging paths took form, a winding trail towards the left and a straighter one towards the right.

Heh. Cool effect.

A bit unnerving – never had he heard that a forest could do this kind of thing – but cool.

Good thing Scarface and Stoic Kid didn't seem bothered at all, though. These moving trees were worse than ghosts by far, in his opinion; for a moment he'd feared Scar might be upset again. Thankfully, his fellow Guardians both seemed alright.

In fact, Itachi almost looked at ease. Serene. Tranquil.

Weird.

Harry considered the paths for a long moment, then pointed his Rod toward the left and they moved that way, Itachi scouting the way, maintaining them on track through the twisting and wiggling, writhing and morphing of the vegetation.

Stoic Kid seemed to be born in a forest, he moved with such simpleness and could instantly interpret every sign of their surroundings as if it was his mother language.

Seifer was left to follow the group, mind hastily reviewing what he'd learned back at Garden about forest-dwelling monsters. Chances were these world had different ones, but you never knew: the similar environment might well have pushed their evolution along similar paths.

He rather hoped they'd get a chance to confirm or disprove his idea. Soon, ideally.

He didn't like taking up the rear.

Oh, he did it without complaints when it was his turn – he was a _professional,_ he didn't care what the damn SEEDs examiners had thought, bunch of losers that they were – but it sort of made him uneasy.

After all, he'd been left behind before.

And really, why was Harry even bothering with him? When it came right down to it?

He might throw his bravado around like he had an endless supply of self-confidence to draw upon, but deep down the doubts stayed. He was a failure... a reject... what if his Summoner suddenly wised up and discarded him, like the others before him?

Then Harry turned a little to look at him over his shoulder while they walked and smiled – and all was well. His sudden unease vanished, as it always did when the green-eyed teen reminded him – with a look, with a smile – that yeah, he was one of his Chosen.

He flashed his trademark grin back, knowing Harry loved it. His Summoner had told him so himself, one night when Seifer was having uncharacteristically manifest self-doubts.

Well, who wouldn’t? Really?

Harry was _special_ – he had the power, strength of will and determination to change the world to suit his vision and the morals and enthusiasm to want it changed for the better of all. People of his kind rarely graced a world.

And Seifer… well. When he came right down to it, he wasn't exactly a good person. Or a very reliable one.

He’d done awful things. He was very careful to keep those from Harry; he wasn’t sure how his Summoner would react. Maybe he sort of already knew. Maybe he wouldn't mind. But... maybe he would. Stoic Kid knew… the expressionless teen might well have done stuff just as awful; he would get this look at times… They didn't need to talk about any of it. They just knew, saw the understanding in each other's eyes. And Scarhead… yeah… Seifer'd ended up telling him most of everything. In disjointed random bouts that sort of sneaked up on him. He always felt better afterwards; mortified but lighter. Besides the man never judged him. Not for his acts of cruelty, not for his moments of stupidity, not for any weakness he might confess. He just listened.

It helped.

That didn't change the fact that Seifer wasn’t sure that he deserved to be one of Harry’s Chosen.

He wanted to be – no doubts on this. It was his chance of redemption. Of doing things right this time! But...

Why should he get such a chance at all?

Why would the little Summoner even want him around?

Harry’s answer that one time he'd blurted out the question that was plaguing him had been sweetly candid: “I like you, Seifer. You’re a great friend… you're smart, you're bold and always so full of confidence. Nothing ever gets you down. Nothing is impossible to you, you just figure out a way to manage. Just by talking to you, I feel like I could take on the world!”

That totally bolstered Seifer's spirits. Being bold and brash and a source of inspiration? Oh yeah, he could _do_ that. Just like with his posse, back at Garden, right? He _totally_ could – and if that was enough for his Summoner, then all was well.

Sometimes Seifer wondered why in Hyne's name Harry had picked him of all people. Sometimes he wondered how long he would have before he'd be told that there had been a mistake, that he wasn't supposed to be a Guardian after all.

Then Harry would grin at him and he'd remember that he was, indeed, _wanted_. And worthy of it.

It was this unspoken-of complicity that made his relationship with Harry so important, so _special_.

Although they'd been off to a truly rocky start...

He remembered well how he'd felt lying there in the Lunatic Pandora, broken and desolate at last, his body bruised, his spirit crushed. Nothing left to cling to.

The Sorceress he'd offered himself to long gone, not one thought spared for him, who was supposed to be her Knight, who had once been her child: only cruel indifference.

His friends, his supporters, his posse, who he'd once thought would always be by his side, gone too, picking the sullen Ice Princeling over him, and hadn't that hurt! That after years of being together, of sharing everything, they would pick his rival, his enemy even! Just like Rinoa. Or his pseudo-sisters from back at the Orphanage – all of them ignoring him or only giving him pitying, disappointed looks!

That galled even now, in memories.

He wasn't a disappointment. Whatever else, he wasn't that!

He had made his decision with his eyes wide open and he had given his best to everything he'd chosen to do. Everything he'd chosen to be. He had followed his dream and put all his effort in achieving it. That the dream had been crushed didn't mean a thing.

He had no regrets, save to have misjudged who was worthy of his trust.

Yet no-one had understood him in the least.

They had all left... gone... and in the end, that thrice-damned example of improbability wrapped in a red turban-cloak kind of garment had destroyed even the last thing he had left, his pride as a warrior, treating him like he was nothing more than a useless rag doll, to be thrown in the trash. That awful absurdity with too many arms had shown up from a bloody rift in space/time, blathered some ridiculous nonsense about 'the Fourth' and defeated him. Defeated! Him!

He could only thank his lucky star that Harry had been passing by right at that time. On his own, he might not have managed to get himself up again.

He wasn't sure when the boy and his companions had arrived. He'd been drifting in and out of consciousness, his wounds taking their toll and his beaten spirit uncharacteristically wallowing in self-pity.

A whitish haze had enveloped him, that much he remembered, and he'd felt the same pleasantly tingling sensation of when a Cure swept through his body, though the magic had felt livelier and fresher than the standard spells.

He'd recovered his full senses to see a green-eyed teen, with a cerulean outfit full of little ornaments, orange goggles pushed up in his dark hair and a tall metallic Rod in his hands, kneeling by his side; behind him, an unlikely pair: a tall man with white hair, oval sunglasses and a huge scar across his forehead and a younger bloke with onyx eyes framed by black bangs and the kind of emotionally stunted expression Seifer had come to expect from Icy Squally.

He'd stared at them as he heaved himself to a sitting position; and then he'd been absolutely flabbergasted by the kneeling teen holding up a copy of _Occult Fan_ and asking brightly: “Would you happen to know where the Grandidi Forest is? It says here it should be in these parts, or at least on this continent, we think...”

“You don't actually believe that rubbish, do you? There's no way anything printed in that lunatic rag is true,” had blurted out Seifer, regardless of the absurdity of the meeting (to this day, he didn't know how they'd entered the Lunatic Pandora at all, never mind why).

“Huh...” the teen had blinked, then beamed a little forcedly: “Anyway! We're looking for this... Guardian Force, is it called?... so if you have any indications, we would be most grateful! By the way, my name's Harry,” he'd added almost as an afterthought.

“Seifer,” he had replied on autopilot, vaguely weirded out by the whole situation.

The odd boy had beamed brightly: “Nice to meet you, Seifer! So, do you know where we can find this?”

Some part of him had wondered if the oddness of it all and his own somewhat dazed reaction meant this wasn't happening in reality – maybe he was delirious or something – but before he could ponder on it, a whole lot of mechanical noise had exploded all around them as one of Galbadia's living weapon jumped on them and started shooting randomly.

It was a dark green monster with lethal claws and yellow fangs, standing on its hind legs to support a 155mm autocannon on both shoulders.

The two silent ones had instantly moved to cover the still kneeling kid, acting with the smoothness of trained bodyguards – a corner of Seifer's mind had recognized the positions that had been drilled into him at Garden and distantly appreciated their professionalism. At the same time, he had reflexively identified the foe and recalled what he knew about it, his heavy disbelief at the whole thing making him feel rather detached, and had commented blandly: “A SAM08G. It will have to resort to a charge move before being able to blast us. Thunder attacks will work well.”

Hearing his information, the kid with the blank expression had promptly moved his hands in a flowing, lightning-fast sequence of positions that vaguely reminded Seifer of the copper-haired Messenger Girl's magic attacks. Though she used her nunchaku, of course.

He had registered the details without much thought, still feeling detached and rather unconcerned, the strangeness of the situation making everything seem a little more distant than normal; then he'd felt the charge building for the attack and before he could figure out what he was about to do, he'd already sprung to his feet and let lose a Thundara that mingled with the dark-haired kid's unusual spell, plunging into the cannon-wielding monster with a devastating shock.

Seifer had barely had the time to blink at his own actions – he figured he'd been simply too used to fighting to not take part in a combat situation, _any_ combat situation: it was the only explanation – before the improbability level of the whole situation had been bumped up to ridiculous levels by the sudden reappearance of the red-clad multiarmed menace.

Four swords had fallen from the sky, startling them, and embedded themselves in the ground all around them, quivering with the force of the strikes. Then the blighter had been there, rising from a crouch on the ground and attempting to look inscrutable.

Seen up close, it had a grey complexion that made him seem like he had been dead for a long time before being brought back to life. No wonder he covered the majority of his face with that tattered red scarf. And used make-up for the rest: red paint ran in stripes under his eyes, like tears of blood against his grey skin. Not that it did much to help his looks, in Seifer's opinion.

Then the weird guy had grabbed the closest sword and slashed so violently with it, that Seifer had had the impression that the whole world had been sliced in half by a white-blue cut. It had lasted a long instant, then disappeared, leaving the monster in neatly cut halves.

Suddenly and surprisingly, the figure had leapt up once more, spinning gracefully and then landing next to them, allowing Seifer to get a proper look at the towering build and at the sets of demonic looking horns sticking out from his head. It had drawn itself to its full height, obviously gearing up to some outlandish proclamation or other, but Seifer had never been one to appreciate dramatics. Unless, that is, _he_ was the one indulging in them.

So he'd promptly diverted everybody's attention by yelling at the monstrosity in red: “YOU again! What the hell are you doing here!”

A furious hiss had escaped the sword-wielder: “What? You! My introduction! I can't believe you ruined it! You'll pay for that!”

Seifer's reaction had been, predictably, to slash air with his gunblade – always a comfort – and scoff: “Just who do you think you are, anyway?” he had demanded nastily.

"Who am I?" The red swordsman had questioned quietly, then his head had shot up. "WHO AM I? Fool! I am the mightiest of mighty swordsmen! I have the vigour of a great tempest! My strength once decimated an entire army! My enemies fear my name, and the Gods tremble at my power!”

“Bah,” had muttered Seifer, irritated. Listening to someone he didn't like going on blathering about their own greatness was _boring._

“Hear my name now for I am GILGAMESH!"

Seifer had snorted, none too discreetly.

“Fool!” had reiterated the supposedly mighty warrior, hissing, then he'd returned to his position in front of the green-eyed kid who was still clutching the rolled up magazine and watching everything with a slight smile.

“I am Gilgamesh,” he had repeated, making his voice a lot more mysterious than when he'd yelled at Seifer, “I am the Wandering Hero of the Void! I had planned to keep an eye on the Walker of Times and his companions, but this! This is much more interesting!” he had proclaimed in a bellowing voice, holding out his hands as if to encompass the three strangers.

“Walker of Times?” had asked the kid, looking confused, but apparently Gilgamesh had been too taken up in his own rant to pay attention: “ _So_ very interesting!”

Seifer had quickly lost whatever shade of patience he might have had. He'd never liked being ignored – so sue him! “WHAT is interesting, you overgrown improbability?” he'd demanded.

The red-clad warrior had promptly abandoned his inspired pose in favour of scowling at him. Again. “You nuisance! Do you not see? This is a TRUE Summoner!”

That had been less helpful than one of Quistis' lectures, which was saying everything, really.

“A what?” had muttered Seifer, glancing uncertainly at the odd kid and his silent bodyguards. They hadn't looked surprised at the declaration. It had done very little to quench the edginess Seifer was feeling rising.

“I have travelled through more dimensions than I care to remember and I've seen a lot of astounding sights, but this! This is _so_ interesting!” Gilgamesh had blathered on.

The so-proclaimed Summoner in question had frown interestedly at this and taken a few steps toward the red-clad annoyance, his two bodyguards hovering protectively close to him.

“Excuse me, but... did you say that you travel through dimensions?” he'd asked politely.

“Of course! I use the portals in the Rift to seek out and collect my rare and powerful swords!” He'd immediately started showing off – much to Seifer's grumbled disgust – a veritable arsenal of rare and powerful blades.

Sometime after the third, the part of Seifer's brain that was shouting about the illogicality and insanity of it all had abruptly shut up and he'd defaulted to what he always did when he felt profoundly uneasy, namely, ignore anything that was disturbing him and proceed to bluff himself into the centre of attention.

“So what, exactly, is a Summoner?” he'd asked pleasantly enough, taking out his own, magnificent blade in an apparently careless way and swinging it casually under everybody’s eyes, to make sure it attracted the proper amount of attention. Which it did, of course. His Hyperion was as awesome as its master – after all, it was a custom model of his own design.

Nobody had commented on it however. Gilgamesh had just scoffed disgustedly at him, while the odd kid had, somewhat succinctly, explained: “Summoners, well... we are practitioners of a peculiar kind of magic... trained in summoning powerful beings known as Aeons, calling them to our aid. We have other duties, but... that's the gist of it.”

Ah, so that was why he was looking for the Grandidi Forest. He was after the GF rumoured to dwell there. Well, Seifer could understand that.

“So you're a Summoner, then?” he had asked, just to be clear, and he'd gotten a firm nod in response. He'd shrugged: “Oo-kay.” No skin off his nose, really. “That why you want the GF, I suppose?” he had tossed out, truthfully more concerned with nonchalantly pushing his gunblade under the red menace's grumpy nose than with whatever the kid would say.

“What? You want to drag the Guardian Force into service?” had grumbled Gilgamesh, _still_ ignoring his gunblade, the tosser. “Not going to work. Hah! Your power has led you to arrogance!...”

“You're one to talk,” had snorted Seifer.

The kid had frowned, displeased: “It's not like that...”

Seifer had raised an eyebrow at him: “Wait, you don't want the GF? Riiight... Why are you looking for it, then?”

The Summoner had sighed exasperatedly: “Look, I'm not even sure of what a GF _is,_ ok? Only... if what I've found out is right, they seem to have a lot in common with Aeons and so I was wondering if maybe my next Trial might be in connection with one of them...”

Now, Seifer had not understood much of this, especially the part about trials, but since that irritating Gilgamesh had now been scoffing dismissively at the Summoner, he'd instantly decided to take the kid's parts. Only logical, really. Enemy of my enemy – wasn't there a saying about this? So he'd generously launched into the standard definition Garden had drummed into his head, purely to be helpful.

“Well, a GF is an independent energy force, which has no solid form and can only manifest for limited periods of time,” he'd informed the strange kid. “By combining it with para-magic, it is possible to control tremendous energy. That's called junctioning and when a GF is junctioned to a human, they give superhuman strength and enhance the users' body functions.”

Hah, and to think the idiotic examiners had barely passed him. He'd been about to point out the memory loss risk business, but he'd been rudely interrupted.

“WHAT?” had come a bellow from the red-clad warrior.

Seifer had eye-balled him: “I said that...”

“Ignorant boy!” had thundered Gilgamesh.

Seifer's brow had twitched in irritation. “I am not a BOY!”

Of course, the damn improbability had completely ignored him: “Do you know nothing? Guardian Forces are what cast-off Aeons are reduced to! And Aeons are Guardian Forces who haven’t been discarded by their lieges!”

Everybody – Seifer was _very_ pleased to remember he hadn't been the only one – had goggled at the towering warrior.

“What... what do you mean, exactly?” had asked the Summoner kid.

Gilgamesh had looked at them with a put-upon sigh: “A Summoner’s Guardian – or a Sorceress’ Knight, or a Patriarch's Protector – can be turned into an Aeon. Don't ask me how. I have no idea. But that's what happens.”

“Guardian?” had blurted out Seifer, truthfully shocked at the idea that something _else_ like a Sorceress' Knight could exist.

“That would be us,” had briefly commented the tall, scarred guy, barely sparing Seifer a glance.

Gilgamesh had just blathered on obliviously: “They acquire the powers of an Aeon and retain their duty, the impulse to protect their bonded human. Eventually the Summoner dies, but Aeons are eternal unless they are killed… Same for a Sorceress Knight, if she dies before him, why, just think about Griever…”

“But how is this possible?” had asked the kid, looking at once avid for information and dismayed by it.

“I just said I DON'T KNOW!” had raged the annoying warrior. “They have a bond with their liege in life, don't they? _You_ should know better than me! But I've seen it happen! They loose something of themselves and are lost, wandering, and if their bonded didn't ensure they would have a task beyond his or her death, why, that's how they become Guardian Forces!… They're... they're Unsent! Unsent that acquire fiendish looks but are still driven by their need to protect…”

He'd crossed his arms petulantly: “ _Everybody_ knows that!”

“Well, I didn't,” had replied the kid with a thoughtful look.

Gilgamesh had leaned down to give him a long look into the eyes: “Clearly, you haven't found the answers you need yet, young Summoner.” He'd stood up. “You won't find them in the Grandidi Forest either,” he'd declared smugly.

The kid had blinked, then asked – far too politely in Seifer's opinion: “Then... can you tell me where to find what I'm looking for?”

“No,” had been the blunt answer.

Faced with the taken aback expression of the Summoner, Gilgamesh had quickly added, sounding apologetic: “A Summoner is shaped by his Pilgrimage. You must follow the tug of your magic, young Lord, it will lead you to where you need to go. If I were to simply disclose the answers to you, you would be diminished by my interference…”

The kid had nodded understandingly. Seifer, for his part, had not bothered to hide his snort. Irritating, self-righteous...

The annoying entity had wrapped his red cape around himself with an over-dramatic flourish and boomed some nonsense about needing to leave 'post haste'. And he'd vanished on the spot.

They'd all been rather stunned after his abrupt departure. Seifer's head had been fuzzy and he'd vaguely reflected about the blessedness of silence.

The taller bodyguard had been the first to recover: “So, what now?”

The Summoner had blinked, mind clearly still on the red-clad absurdity, then shrugged: “Oh, I suppose we'll just continue our journey.”

Then he'd turned to Seifer, all perky: “So, are you coming with us?”

“ 'Course I am,” he'd answered impulsively.

And that had been that.

To this very day, Seifer couldn’t tell what on earth had pushed him to accept that obviously unpremeditated offer…

Mind you, he was glad he had.

Even as they were still walking out of the Lunatic Pandora, the kid with no expression in the lead and the scarred guy as rearguard, he'd mulled over the idea and liked it. A Summoner was like a Sorceress, right? His romantic dream was not beyond reach after all! He’d be a Guardian instead of a Knight… it wasn’t that different.

Except that it was, because Harry wasn’t using him, wasn’t manipulating him like Edea had, Harry was _worthy_ of being knighted for!

But that, he'd only learned later.

At the time, all he'd known was that a vague sort of _rightness_ justified his decision.

Besides, no-one had argued. There had been just... acceptance. In hindsight, it was truly mind-boggling.

The very first half-hour had set the tone for the easiness among them. Because of course, even after they'd sort of dealt with the crazy sword-obsessed annoyance and somehow sorted out the most basic details of Seifer's addition to the odd party, things had been rather awkward at first.

Seifer hated awkward.

Good thing the kid had managed to break the ice quite soon.

“So… uhm… cool sword,” Harry had said a little tentatively.

Seifer, already on edge in the unsettling set of events, had exploded: “Sword!... why, you!... How _dare_ you! This _baby_ is a GUNBLADE!”

“A… what?”

Seifer had closed his eyes, praying for patience. Really, he'd reminded himself. The kid believed the _Occult Fan_ stuff. Something had obviously gone wrong in his upraising. Couldn't be blamed for ignorance. He should be gracious and explain instead.

So he'd done just that, showing off his _amazing_ Hyperion – the gun action built into the hilt, the barrel running inside the length of the blade, the carefully shaped sword blade, even demonstrating the shock wave that triggering a round sent through the blade to increase damage.

All his annoyance had vanished when he’d seen the spark of awe in the Summoner’s eyes. Oh, yeah… the kid did understand. He wasn’t a bad sort, really. He just needed a few things explained. Luckily, Seifer was there to take him in hand… it was his inner generosity pushing him, no doubt…

And luckily, every interaction with Harry after that had been just as easy. And just as rewarding.

The other two had been tougher nuts to crack, but little by little he'd managed to get to know his fellow Guardians too. He'd soon found his unexpected companions growing on him like he'd never believed anyone could.

Really, it was practically uncanny how _easily_ they all fit together. How they barely even had a need to say anything at all – well, Seifer talked a lot, of course, but that's because he liked the sound of his own voice, and it wasn't like there was anything wrong with it, no matter how other people made it sound; but he seldom needed his companions to verbalize their contributions to the conversation. And silences among them were never awkward or stilted: they were just natural. Their combat styles might as well have been devised for their cooperation, so well they meshed together; their general tastes, no matter the inevitable differences, ran on parallel and often close tracks; and on the serious stuff – like, say, protecting Harry – they were remarkably like-minded.

Yes, Seifer had very quickly come to admit that he was _happy_ with the other three.

Besides, it had been pretty clear that they needed him. Badly. Especially the little Summoner. Almost fifteen and he barely had a clue what fun was! The solemn gloominess of the other two had clearly ruined him.

Honestly! Too serious by half.

Stoic Kid was a workaholic that probably had completely missed the lesson on what fun even was. A clear example? When Harry’d innocently admitted that he didn’t know how to swim and Seifer, of course, had offered to teach the kid – because swimming was great fun! – what had been Stoic Kid’s comment? “It would possibly be beneficial for him to be able to survive in the chance that he falls into water.”

Hyne, can you say ‘overachiever’? It was something Icy Princeling Squally might have said…

As for Scarface, he did nothing but mope about, all serious and obsessed. Well, they all had their problems, didn't they, wasn’t a good reason to go around as if they were mourning!

Seifer had guessed pretty soon that it was up to him to make sure Harry had some fun. So, he'd taken up the task of lightening the kid's life up. He rather liked it too. His memories of the Orphanage were still rather vague, but he kind of remembered that most children there had been older than him. Or total wimps. Now he got to be the cool older brother to a little brother who was fun and caring and smart. It felt _good_!

They'd started travelling around his world looking for... something (he hadn't been clear on the matter back then). Good thing he had had excellent marks in Geography. And that they all, perhaps surprisingly, loved sailing.

He'd sort of kept an eye on Squally's progress – the ragtags were travelling around a lot too – but slowly had come to realize that he cared more for his new companions' opinion than his past classmates'.

Seifer was abruptly jolted out of his memories by a huge spider falling upon him from a high branch. And by huge he meant dragon-sized. The damn thing was as big as the robot that had chased them that time in Dollet!

Stoic Kid and he made quick work of it, but the unsettling clicking from above them clued him in to the fact that the spider had family around. And he couldn't even burn them all to a crisp. Damn forest.

At least the dark shapes seemed cautious and wary of approaching. If they just let them be, Seifer might feel generous enough not to go out of his way to destroy them after all.

The twisting trees were taking on more definite pathways now. Maybe they were realizing that the Summoner's Rod would lead them unerringly and there really wasn't a point in creating a maze. Or maybe the forest wasn't sentient after all and it was all just random.

Either worked for Seifer, as long as they got to the Cloister of Trials soon, because if his modest experience was anything to go by, they'd be in there for a very long time.

Hyne, he hoped this Cloister wouldn't be as frustrating as the last one!

When they'd at last found the cursed place (and who would have guessed the members of the supposedly lost Deep Sea Research Center facility had found and tried to investigate such a place? He should have sent an article about it to the _Occult Fan_... just for the hell of it!)... it had turned out to be a labyrinth so convoluted it had been hopeless to try and keep track of its complexity, with walls that were all alike – same colour, same height, same width; anonymous staircases that kept shifting; impossible connections defying the laws of perspective!

It had been an exercise in patience. Seifer had felt his temper – always short even at the best of times – build like steam under pressure as they were slowly being drawn in and swallowed by the gloriously illogical spaces. They'd walked for miles, he swore, along seemingly interchangeable corridors, and gained about fifty meters in a straight line. If that. Nightmarish!

Then there had been a number of barriers – some physical, some magical, a couple even illusionary, letting their minds work against them... urgh!

He still wasn't sure the Aeon had been worth it. Sure it could defend from anything, literally _anything_ , but it was damn slow and looked ridiculous. Like a cross between a heavily-armoured adamantoise and a pink armadillo.

He shook his head to clear it of the remembered frustration just as Stoic Kid stopped them and pointed at something further away, in the midst of all the greens and blacks and flickering rays of filtered sunshine playing at the very edge of their sight.

Getting closer, they admired in slight awe the majestic tree, that despite not being taller than those around it, was at least three times as large. Its bark was cracked and full of knobs and ridges: perfect for climbing, as were the thick, solid branches that spread out rather than up, circling upon themselves and around others and at times twining around nearby trunks, like fond arms encircling friendly waists.

It was the matter of moments to find the staircase carved – magically most likely – inside the amazing trunk and plunging downwards into the rich, moist soil.

It led them to an underground circular room from which four chapel-like spaces branched out. They were all identical in size and shape: only the décor varied. The colour scheme was simple and primary: green with a touch of silver for the one on their right, red and gold for the one opposite it, a deep, royal blue with bronze finishing before them and behind them a cheery yellow with onyx black touches. Drawing closer, their attention was caught by the amazingly detailed and refined bas-reliefs that covered the lower parts of the walls, intricate carvings of flora and fauna framing what Seifer assumed were scenes of past or myth.

They contemplated the beautiful works in silence for a little while, each wandering, and wondering, by themselves, until suddenly Harry exclaimed: “I know this one!”

He was examining the lower frieze in the blue and bronze chapel, bending to run his fingers lightly on a sequence of plant-like carvings: “Powdered griffin claw... shredded dittany ... here's a fire... and this looks like a woman stirring a concoction... and here, look, she's pouring something... it's the instructions on how to create a Strengthening Elixir!”

They blinked.

“Why would such a recipe be the central theme of a decoration?” wondered Scarface.

Seifer shrugged, but Stoic Kid took the question seriously and bent to examine more closely the bas-reliefs in the green-and-silver area, where he was standing: “This frieze, too, seems to be comprised of instructions,” he called out. “Although it appears to be centred on the Transformation Technique rather than any alchemic recipe...”

They all walked up to him and, indeed, saw the representation of a man slowly changing into a clawed bird.

“Could you do that?” asked Seifer with undisguised curiosity, because Stoic Kid's ability to change his appearance was truly amazing and not a little dumbfounding.

He got a distracted nod in answer, and after a moment Stoic Kid mused aloud: “I suppose that, this being a school that teaches such subjects, the choice of portraying lessons in place of the more traditional battles or feasts or other epics might be understood.”

“This isn't the school proper, though,” objected Harry. “This is a Cloister of Trials. I doubt there would be something here not connected to the task we're supposed to complete.”

Scarface frowned: “What are you thinking, then?”

“That these might be clues,” replied Harry matter-of-factly.

Seifer sighed, put-upon. Labyrinths were bad, but puzzles? Puzzles were even worse. Why couldn't they be facing a simple, straightforward, satisfying battle?

Bored, he crossed his arms and let his back fall with a soft thump against the nearest wall.

Something clicked.

Everybody froze.

Wide-eyed, Seifer pushed himself up and turned to see that a thin section of stone had sunk and recessed into the wall. A low rumble from the middle of the central room made him spin again and he all but groaned. Of all the stupid things to do... how could he have triggered a trap!

Only, it looked like it wasn't a trap after all. They'd instantly grabbed their weapons and readied themselves for a battle, but nothing of the sort happened. Where the rumble had originated, a slim, elegant silver mirror was raising from the floor with quiet grace. Once it was completely out of the ground, it stopped. The rumble died away.

Nothing else happened.

After a while, they relaxed somewhat.

“I guess we're on the right track,” commented Harry, cautiously nearing the beautiful mirror. “It looks like a perfectly normal mirror, though,” he added after examining it closely. “What do you think we're supposed to do?”

“Hmm...” frowned Scarface. He examined the wall section Seifer had accidentally pushed, then marched off to the blue and bronze area once more, scanning the wall there. “Here,” he declared with satisfaction after a moment, and put his shoulder to another section of the wall, sinking it into the surrounding stone.

The rumble started up again and this time it was a slim pillar with spiralling carvings that rose from the floor, supporting a silver bowl.

Once again, nothing more happened.

Harry moved closer to the bowl and ran his fingers lightly on its geometric etchings. “Right...” he murmured. “Obviously we must trigger the other two items as well. And considering what these are and where...” he trailed off, glancing speculatively at the instructions carved in the walls.

Stoic Kid nodded: “Logically thinking, the correct transformation must be performed in front of the mirror and the correct concoction must be put into this container to activate... something...” his voice, that had started out with his usual quiet confidence, ended on an uncertain note that was quite unlike him.

Seifer snorted good-naturedly.

Harry, however, was nodding enthusiastically: “Precisely what I was thinking.” He rummaged into his belt quickly, a little frown of concentration on his forehead.

As usual, Seifer spared an envious thought for the incredible accessory. It might look like a simple, boring leather belt, but the slim pockets sewn into it were _at least_ three times larger than their outside dimensions and regardless of what Harry stuffed inside them, the weight of the thing didn't increase. He wanted one like it, dammit! Luckily, Harry had promised to get his 'Uncle O'aka' to find one for Seifer 'once he got back', so there was hope.

“Aha!” cried Harry triumphantly. He quickly spread out on the floor an impressive array of odds and ends. “I can do this! Yes... I have everything I need! Well... not using that recipe, actually...” he waved carelessly at the blue and bronze walls, “but I can synthesize the griffin claw from animal glue and coeurl bones, and use roots of burning bush instead of dittany if I mix them with lemon leaves... the result should be the same!”

“Should?” asked Scarface sharply.

“Will,” retorted Harry with a stubborn scowl.

“Alright,” was Stoic Kid's predictable acceptance. “We'll keep watch.”

“Speak for yourself!” retorted Seifer at once. “It'll probably take him ages, you know how it is with his Alchemy, and I'm already bored. Besides, it's not like it takes all of us for it. You keep watch... I'll have a look around!”

He wasn't surprised when Stoic Kid glared, irritated, but Scarface put a stop to whatever row might have broken out: “Seifer's right, there doesn't seem to be any danger here yet, so you're more than enough to watch over Harry. We should try and figure out the other two chapels in the meantime.”

Satisfied, Seifer stalked off with a dramatic twirl and walked purposefully towards the yellow-and-black space for all of five steps before catching a good look at what was carved there and turning sharply for the other option. Languages and ideograms had never been his thing – he'd positively hated those useless classes back at Garden – and that stuff looked entirely too much like the horrid runes that had given him a headache and a half when he'd had to try and figure out the Lunatic Pandora shields – which hadn't withstood a simple airship crashing into them anyway, he might add.

No, magic scribblings weren't his things.

The red-and-gold chamber, on the other hand, immediately caught his fancy. The bas-reliefs on the walls looked like the kind of magic – or rather, para-magic – he'd always known: proudly displayed images he could liken to the effects of holy and thunder spells, little pictures of various shields, even what looked like Quistis' annoying Sonic Waves...

The biggest, central figure was a man who'd clearly cast Float on himself, judging by the way he was hovering above the line of the ground, with a hand outstretched in what could only be the motion of thrusting projectiles. Fireballs, judging by the flames that were enveloping his target.

Grinning, Seifer sought out the stone panel to the side and with yet another rumble, a silver target with a double bullseye rose from the ground.

Not one for waiting, or thinking things through, Seifer twirled, made himself levitate, grinning, and shot a fireball at the thing, hitting it dead centre. Startled shouts burst forth from his friends, almost instantly morphing in peeved epithets.

The target flared with pure white light for a long moment, than faded and sunk back into the ground slowly. Just as slowly, the chapel-like room behind Seifer lit up with suffused light, that rose gently from the floor and pervaded the walls, emanating from the very stone they were made of. When it was all illuminated, it grew brighter and brighter, until it reminded Seifer of the neon street-lights in Deling City. It took a few, long seconds, and then a bundle of white beams shot out towards the place where the target had stood.

And then all was still and silent.

After a long moment of tension, the other three exhaled loudly.

“For pity's sake, Seifer! Warn us next time, would you!” exclaimed a very exasperated Harry, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor, some sort of pot before him; the knife he was clenching was dangerously rattling against the floor where he'd let his trembling hand fall.

“What _is_ it with you today!” hissed Stoic Kid, whose grumblings, if Seifer was not mistaken, were yet to finish calling him seven kinds of idiots. It wasn't very easy to tell, though, because they mingled with Scarhead's rant: “What on earth were you thinking! Scratch that, you obviously weren't... thinking that is! Of all the moronic, thoughtless, reckless...”

Seifer grinned, unrepentant: “Oops?” and dispelled the Float, falling back onto the ground with a light thud.

“What if your actions had triggered a trap, or a battle?” snapped Stoic Kid, looking furious.

“Ehm... am I supposed to think that'd be a bad thing?” asked Seifer cheekily.

Harry rolled his eyes at him and went back to his crushed leaves.

“Oh, come on,” whined Seifer, “it was pretty clear that nothing's going to happen until we activate all four of the things. I was just speeding things along!”

“And what if you'd startled Harry into cutting off his fingers? Hm?” snarled Scarhead.

That gave Seifer pause. His smile vanishing, he opened his mouth to apologize, but was cut off: “Don't. No, I mean it. Don't say a word. Don't do anything. In fact, go sit there and. Do. Not. Move,” growled Scar pointing to an out-of-the-way corner.

Huffing, Seifer obeyed.

“I think I might as well get on with it, too,” sighed Stoic Kid and positioned himself in front of the silvery mirror.

Almost too fast for the eye to follow, his hands flew through familiar motions and an instant later he vanished into a puff of white smoke, leaving in his place only a sleek, black bird. Seifer sighed in envy. To be able to that would be really something!

Just like the target, the mirror flared with light and then it dimmed and settled into the floor, while the green-and-silver area lit up, the intensity of the light brightening until the expected beams shot out and went to mingle with the ones coming from the opposite direction.

Scarhead went back to the yellow-and-black chapel and found the stone panel, which provoked the rumbling rise of a huge silver cylinder that seemed to be made of piled disks, each carved with several symbols. A few moment's fiddling proved that they could be rotated individually, so that they could be aligned to form different combinations.

Curious, Seifer started to rise, but a furious glare froze him in mid-motion. Scowling, he sank back on the floor and crossed his arms with a petulant huff.

“Enciphered array,” muttered Scarface almost within himself and went to work.

Companionable silence spread over them as Harry went on mixing and stirring and Scar studied the cylinder carefully, occasionally glancing back to the frieze in the chapel behind him.

Seifer fidgeted, bored. Then he fidgeted some more. Then he decided to try and figure out if he could make Stoic Kid fidget, somehow. He couldn't.

Finally – finally! – Scarface decided he'd got the right combination and gently manipulated the disks into a specific position. With a by now familiar glow, the cylinder sank back into the ground and the chapel lit up, until a third beam joined the first two in a cross-like shape.

Harry smiled brightly from the other side of the room: “Alright! I'm done here. Everybody ready?”

Seifer jumped to his feet and bounced a little in place to warm up, arms rising above his head in a stretch: “ 'Course we are!” he exclaimed eagerly.

More sedate nods came from the other two Guardians and they readied themselves around Harry, who stepped up to the etched bowl, carefully pouring what he'd got from his messing about with his powders and oozes.

When the beams from the fourth chapel joined the others in the middle, the light got suddenly even brighter, to the point of being unbearable, then coalesced in the middle of the room and they barely had the time to realize what was about to happen and shield their eyes before it exploded into a blinding glare.

It slowly dissipated, leaving dancing spots in their vision, and when they could see somewhat properly again, there was a little creature of vaguely humanoid appearance in front of them.

Its skin was so black it seemed made of condensed night and it was wrapped unbecomingly in a far too big and bulky blue cloak; it wore a floppy, pointy hat, a bit too large for its head, with an enormous brim that further obscured its face and made its very yellow eyes glow in contrast to the shade it cast. The small creature couldn't be taller than three feet and definitely looked ill-suited to wielding any kind of weapons, not even the puny dagger it held close to its chest.

It bounced in place a few time, looking like an eager puppy, and _squeaked_.

Seifer burst out laughing.

The creature's attention turned to him and it stretched a black hand towards the ceiling. Above its head, tendrils of cloudy darkness appeared and gathered in a spinning vortex that quickly condensed into a ball, wiping the smile off Seifer's face. Before he could react, the orb of darkness fell on him, exploding on contact. It didn't hurt, but Seifer felt a powerful wave of exhaustion wash over him, making his knees buckle and his breath catch painfully as if he'd been fighting T-Rexaurs for hours.

He cursed himself for forgetting the all-important rule – never, ever underestimate an enemy based on looks alone...

Stoic Kid threw a volley of throwing stars, but they bounced off a shimmering shield that encompassed the little creature. Scarface didn't have any more luck with his exploding a portion of the floor, as the creature just levitated above the cracking stone and the debris sent flying everywhere slid off the shield as well.

“Would have been too easy,” sighed Harry.

The creature squeaked again and seemed to curl upon itself a little; a black aura started surrounding his visible outer skin and its glowing yellow eyes seemed to grow bigger.

It rose a hand again and this time, when it gathered the orb of darkness from nowhere, the blackness was coursed through by coruscate lightning bolts.

“Oops...” grumbled Seifer, preparing to jump out of the way.

Their considerable evading skills proved useless however: the sphere impacted the floor several feet from any of them, yet they were all effected. Seifer felt as if he hadn't slept in a week and he saw Scarface waver tiredly to his left. Stoic Kid was panting, which was practically unheard of, and Harry was collapsed on the floor and rummaging frantically in one of his bags.

“It can focus,” was Stoic Kid's muttered comment, “storing power for the next attack.”

Scarface nodded and grimaced: “And it does so in the time we need to recuperate from its attack.”

Seifer groaned. “Vicious cycle,” he commented disgustedly. “Lovely.”

Harry called out weakly and when they turned to him, he let little sparkly phials and oddly-coloured grenades roll on the floor towards each of them. “Items only, let's coordinate,” he managed, sounding groggy.

Another squeak heralded a third stormy orb of destructive darkness, which barely gave them the time to scoop up the items before impacting, cursing them with another bout of tiredness and lethargy.

Seifer felt so weak the mere idea of rising the phial to his lips was daunting. His arms trembled badly, muscles aching as if overused. It took a supreme effort to uncork it and down the shimmering liquid with fatigued gulps.

Fire flew in his veins, energizing him so fast it was a shock. He jumped to his feet, absolutely incapable of staying still a moment longer. He felt wide awake and brimming with energy.

To his right, Stoic Kid had resumed his fighting position and was ready, purple grenade in hand, looking at them for his cue. Seifer nodded grimly, spying the creature focusing again – black aura and all – and armed his glowing orange bomb before glancing off to Harry and Scarface, finding them both up and ready.

“On three,” called out Scarface. “One, two...” and the four grenades flew in graceful arcs with perfect coordination, right as yet another lightning-riddled orb plunged among them.

The wave of dizziness and the feeling of having received a severe beating returned, but the explosions were going off, and then kept going off – proof that Harry had tampered with the grenades more than a little – as they picked themselves up.

When the smoke and booms died down, the only sign of the creature left was the blue cloak crumpled in a pool of cloth on the floor, and the over-large hat sagging sadly atop it.

A soft squeak echoed from somewhere and when Seifer looked over to Harry, he saw that the Summoner had a faraway look and a very slight smile, as if he was seeing and communicating with things far beyond anyone else's reach.

Which he was, he reminded himself.

“Another Aeon bagged, then?” he asked cheerfully and though the others rolled their eyes at him, Harry also nodded smiling.

Seifer cheered. Mission accomplished!

“Alright! Now let's go back and have lunch! I'm starving!” he cried, already moving towards the wooden staircase.

The forest felt brighter and more cheerful and their path was untroubled by either plant or beast, which only served to improve everybody's mood further.

Perhaps that was why the attack, when it came, caught them completely off guard.


	11. An Unexpected Battle

If Harry was to be completely honest, he would have to admit he hadn't even considered the possibility of being attacked right then, right there.

It seemed simply impossible to be ambushed just outside a Cloister... almost... wrong, on a fundamental level – a profanation of sorts, if you will. Stupid, really. Why would the sense of serene accomplishment, that always filled _him_ after gaining the alliance of an Aeon, have any relevance on other people's actions?

Thankfully, his Guardians weren't as unprepared as he felt, unexpected though the attack was. It was probably impossible to catch Itachi off guard – being alert was his default mode and his senses and combat instincts were just too freaking good. And Seifer and Scar weren't slouch either.

No sooner had the first green beam shot out of nowhere – or rather, Harry realized, from where a disillusioned group had to be standing – that it impacted with an intercepting kunai flawlessly thrown by his most impassive Guardian.

The metal weapon exploded in dangerous shrapnel, but Itachi, his supernatural speed only honed by training and a judicious use of the Autohaste ability painstakingly earned under Seifer's direction, had already moved the Summoner out of the way and behind the shelter of a tree, shielding him with his body. As for the other two Guardians, the first barrage of curses had barely exploded around them and already they were springing into action, lashing back at their attackers with those amazing skills and coordination that always left Harry smiling in wonder.

The young Summoner breathed deeply, forcing himself to recover his balance and to push away the feeling of irritation – at himself for being surprised like this, at the ill-timed attack for disrupting his peaceful satisfaction, and at the enemies that just wouldn't leave him alone most of all. Why were they even targeting him? This wasn't a chance attack, it was _planned._

Itachi stepped out of the tree sideways, his fingers moving in a blur that contrasted sharply with his still, composed frame. Pressurized water erupted from apparently nowhere and jumped forward in a spinning motion, drilling through where he was reasonably sure the nearest bunch of attackers would be. Judging by the screams of pain, he was right.

Lethal green and purple beams zoomed around him and Harry, but their aim was wildly off.

The Summoner glanced quickly beyond the barrage of glittering shurikens Itachi was skilfully disseminating among their disillusioned enemies, somehow making them explode on impact into scorching flames that marked the contours of invisible robes and suddenly contorting bodies, and caught sight of Seifer's powerful Reflect shield blazing white and green from the other side of the improvised battlefield. His attackers were screaming in frustration at being hit by their own curses, while the blond struck as unexpected as lightning, with his characteristic backhand slashes.

Scar was weaving his own attacks beautifully with Seifer's, moving around and alongside the blond gunblader with ease: they had the confident fluidity of a team that knew each other's style inside out, born of long hours shared, in and out of practice time, and a common goal they were devoted to.

They didn't waste a second, neither to discuss their own moves, nor to worry about Harry, correctly trusting Itachi to protect their Summoner; they also didn't need any visual targets to wreak havoc: Seifer, because he'd trained himself to fight under Blind status to the point his accuracy was unaffected; Scar, because he only needed a rough estimate of where the enemies were, to explode the ground around them and leave them bleeding and disoriented, incapable of keeping the Disillusionment Charm up through the pain, and unable to gather their wits and strike back because either him or Seifer were almost instantly on them, fists and kicks breaking bones with frightening ease and gunblade slashing through the black-robed wand-wielders as if they were mere toys.

The first wave of ambushers was dispatched in mere minutes, the battle cries turned pained screams and the booming shouts of destruction tapering off for a breathless moment. But it was far from the end.

As the dust raised by the struggle attempted to settle, Harry felt the atmosphere changing: he recognized the peculiar quality of tension spreading, that heralded a more even fight.

Higher-ranked enemies were entering the frame.

With a meaningful glance, Itachi and he agreed on a battle plan they had elaborated and honed ages before, in one of their many hypothetical-scenario kind of practices (and, if Harry was to be honest, in countless exasperation-filled quarrels, which his Guardians had relentlessly pressed upon him until he'd at long last come to accept that it was not his role in battle to actually _fight)._

The lean, black-haired warrior raised an Earth Wall before Harry then vaulted above it agilely. He didn't go far, scared of leaving the Summoner defenceless and exposed to possible treachery, the mindset of a ninja pointing out strongly the possibility of decoys and deceptions – Harry always was, and always would be, his first concern, his first thought – but his infallible shurikens struck true, disabling the last struggling wand-wielders nearby with ease, and then he went completely still, the terrifying stillness that was one of his most dangerous battle-modes, when he looked like he wasn't even breathing, and he started crafting one of his Illusions.

Harry, ready and willing, took over watching duty and with calm precision cast Shell and Protect over himself and Itachi in quick succession, all the while observing the newcomers.

They didn't look like wand-wielders. They moved more aggressively, and more economically, like fighters trained for close combat rather than the ranged spell-fire the previous ones had favoured. Moreover, they didn't wear fancy robes, but what was clearly a very sensible uniform, of grey cotton fitted loosely, to allow freedom of movement and perhaps conceal some weapons: trousers fastened at the ankles, knees and waist, a jacket with overlapping lapels over a black and grey camouflage outfit and protective arm-and-hand sleeves. The only thing they had in common with the wand-wielders was the fact that they wore a mask and a hood too.

All in all, however, they didn't seem much more competent than the first wave of attackers and almost too soon, Itachi was shrugging his head very slightly, signalling that his Illusion had taken hold; however, right at that time a grey-white blur launched himself at the immoveable Guardian, who reacted lightning-fast, meeting the strangely bone-white blade the new attacker had thrust at him with a steel one of his own.

Not worried for Itachi in the least, Harry turned to check on his other two Guardians, ready to shield them as well, and was momentarily distracted by the sight of Scar holding his bleeding side with an arm and panting. A curse or a weapon had to have broken through his defence, but luckily it didn't look serious; he evoked his White Magic softly, directing a gentle glowing Cure his way, absently registering that four of their attackers nearby were now fighting enemies of thin air, apparently oblivious to their real opponents: the first victims of Itachi's Illusion.

Seifer, for his part, was squaring off with a tall, dark-robed wizard who moved with lethal elegance. The rebound of an attack had blown off his hood and while his face remained hidden behind a bone-white mask, his long, pale blond hair spilled out in a straight, silky curtain, as attention-catching as anything.

He was displaying far more confidence than anyone else had so far, but noticing that his mouth was curled in a rictus under the mask, Harry judged that Seifer and his usual insults had to have got under the wizard's skin already. Now, _that_ was talent.

As Harry watched, the man twisted his golden-brown wand into a double-helical movement and stabbed it with a snarl in Seifer's direction, generating a murder of tiny crows, incredibly small-sized but with razor-sharp beaks, that streaked through the air towards the blond Guardian with determined viciousness.

Impassive, Seifer stood unwaveringly, gunblade raised horizontally at shoulder level, until the very last useful instant, when he exploded into action, turning on the spot and gathering momentum like a coiled spring, only to release it powerfully in a brutal slash that tore through the insect-like birds, scattering them before their needle-like beaks could pierce him: he triggered a round right in the middle of the storm, causing most of the tiny monsters to explode in a gory mess, and laughed derisively: “That all you've got, blondie? Chickenwuss could do better, and he's a wimp!”

In spite of Seifer's mocking, though, Harry had to recognize that the mysterious blond made for a worthy opponent. He didn't waste time and pelted the Guardian with a series of flashing bullet-like spells, which anyone without Seifer's experienced agility would have had serious troubles dodging. A couple impacted nearby trees, exploding the bark, and one hit a black-clad wizard that was battling something existing only in his mind, blowing his left arm and part of his chest up into dust. The poor man collapsed screaming, and already Seifer was being assaulted by two huge snakes his enemy had conjured out of nowhere, buying himself the time to retreat and keep out of range of the Guardian's blade.

Seifer though made quick work of the two weak threats and, true to himself, didn't stop goading his opponent: “Come on, you blond ponce! Surely you aren't such a ninny? Show me what you got!”

In a move that had seldom worked when he tried it in training, he triggered a round while holding his gunblade behind him, letting the recoil push him forward much faster than the wizard could back away. Unfortunately, he didn't manage to thrust the blade into his enemy, because right at that moment another man suddenly stumbled into the path of his blow. Immediately after, a second one, wearing the same grey uniform, slammed into him with enough force to make them both run themselves through Seifer's blade, which fell through the two bodies like a table knife through butter.

“What the hell!” shouted the blond Guardian.

A careless “Sorry” came from somewhere on the blond's right, where Scar, who was apparently responsible for the ill-timed interruption, was rather distracted by the three opponents he was busy beating soundly, and Seifer spared a half-hearted glare for his fellow Guardian before shrugging and triggering another round, mangling the corpses his gunblade was embedded in, so that the recoil of the shot pushed the blade back, freeing it without effort.

He was barely in time to shield from a whip-like purple spell the blond wizard cast from where he'd sought the cover of a tree.

“Hiding now?” taunted Seifer. “What, are you a coward, too? Not that I'm surprised...”

The wizard snarled in contempt, disgust oozing from his tone as he disdainfully addressed Seifer: “Look at you, relying on that ridiculous contraption like a mudblood-loving fool! You're a disgrace to the name of wizard!”

“Who are you calling a wizard?!” shouted Seifer, stopping the other in his tracks and making him gape unattractively. “Why, you wand-loving asshole! How dare you insult my Hyperion! I'll show you!”

He charged with fury, but the tall blond calmly moved out of the way, throwing a spell at him that made him stumble and slowed him down; then, when Seifer tried to rush him again, the wizard set into a pattern of disappearing and reappearing randomly, always throwing off a couple spells in quick succession before vanishing again with a soft crack. It was a highly effective tactic, because it kept him carefully out of the Guardian's range, frustrating any charge Seifer tried, and allowed him to exploit as cover the other fights that were going on around them. A fair few of his attacks even hit, and soon the Guardian was bleeding from a number of minor wounds.

"What's the matter? Afraid I might bite?" roared Seifer, growing exasperated with the way the wizard was eluding him.

“If you did, it'd probably give me rabids, you disgusting mongrel!” was the sneered reply. “To think, that I must be here, wasting my magic on you... when you're nothing but a filthy muggle!”

Seifer had no clue what 'muggle' even meant, but it was beyond the point, it was clearly an insult. “You’re on my list!” he shouted furiously.

He charged again, but this time, instead of carrying it out like before, he abruptly changed direction in mid-stride, not breaking his run: he swung his gloved fist around with all his might... and grinned ferally when his fist connected. His careful, if discreet, observation of the other's apparitions pattern was paying off: the wizard had been caught completely off-guard!

The bone-white mask was knocked off, baring a pointy face almost as white, on which the blow had left a trail of blood and a rapidly darkening bruise.

The wizard shove him away with a jab of his wand and a growled “ _Repello_!” and scrambled away, catching himself on the dirty ground before straightening and turning, panting, to face Seifer, whipping his wand around just as the Guardian regained his own balance and readied himself to face him again. The wizard was heaving heavy breaths and slowly, very slowly, wiped the trail of blood clean off his chin, never once taking his cold grey eyes off the confident Guardian.

Seifer grinned, and it wasn't pretty: “Looks lovely on you, that bruise,” he mocked. Then he raised his arm in an arrogant, come-hither gesture: “Come on, come closer, now... Let me add a few scars to that pretty face of yours! Might do you some good in the manly department!”

His opponent's eyes flashed with fury, but he apparently had excellent self control. “And what... would a mere _boy_ know... of virility?” he drawled, voice dripping with contempt. “You worthless mudblood, you aren't worth the saliva I would waste should I spit on you... and that poor excuse for a weakling you run around with, who...”

"You don't want to finish that sentence." Seifer's grin vanished with unnatural speed, leaving only a stormy, glacial expression in his face.

The wizard merely narrowed his eyes malevolently: “...who wouldn't be worth to kiss the feet of a true wizard, let alone a _real_ Summoner, if he even knew how to recognize someone so above him...!”

Cold fury burned in Seifer's eyes. How _dare_ this bastard insult Harry. How dare he!

Left hand extended, he called up a fire spell from his dwindling stock, letting it coalesce in his palm, spiralling red and blue-white flames twirling in an apparent orb for an instant before he released it.

The cold grey eyes went wide with shock as the spell shot straight at the wizard and a terrified gasp was torn from him just before he was hit: “Wandless magic!...”

The fiery blow left the man stunned and reeling with pain and fear and Seifer didn't give him any time to recover: in an instant, he was looming over him and there was no stopping his blade this time. A powerful slash cut the black-robed enemy almost in half. His face was frozen in his last expression of utter shock as he fell slowly forwards, his bleeding form crumbling in the dirt.

A shocked cry rose from the trees and a short but bulky man, with broad shoulders straining the black robe and long gorilla arms, came running out, stopping abruptly over the fallen blond: “Lucius!”

“Get back here, you idiot! We must wait for the signal!” roared another masked wizard, running a few steps out of the trees as well, before thinking better of it, and running back with a string of muttered curses.

The man who'd cried out raised his head to look at Seifer wildly, aghast: “You killed him!” he exclaimed in a low rasp. And then, as if he simply couldn't comprehend the fact, he repeated dazedly: “You killed him!”

Seifer rolled his eyes: “So I did,” he agreed sarcastically.

“No, but,” fretted the man, almost gasping. “You killed Lucius.” He looked back down at the dead wizard, then up again: “What am I supposed to do now?” he asked pitifully, sounding like a little lost child.

Seifer gaped at him: “Are you for real?” he asked, then shook his head and turned away, dismissing the man outright.

It was a mistake.

With a roar that was more uncertainty and fear than rage, the bulky wizard aimed at him and shouted: “ _Sectumsempra!”_

Blood spurted from Seifer's back as though he had been slashed with an invisible sword. He staggered forward and Hyperion fell from his suddenly limp hand as he crumbled to his knees, coughing up more blood.

“ _Seifer!”_ shouted Harry, horrified. So far, he'd kept out of the way like his Guardians had drilled into him and had merely kept a keen watch on all fighting going on around him, ready to help out with a stray spell or a small bomb or a spot of healing as needed. The moment he saw Seifer crumbling, though, he started running towards the blond, all thoughts of his own safety forgotten.

He whipped out a couple handy items while he ran: a cheap, shining gem charged to harm a target upon contact and one of his Blaster Bombs, the kind Rikku had taught him to build, mixing this and that with common grenades, and which did little damage but were a pain to deal with for his opponents because they inflicted various deleterious status on the targeted enemies.

The first was thrust with precision at Seifer's vile attacker: the burly man yelped in pain and, taking one look at the enraged boy charging him, turned tail and ran for the woods; the second was thrown a lot more carelessly at where the other wizard had appeared and then hidden again among the trees, but Harry didn't even bother to check if the bomb had had any significant effect. All his attention was on Seifer's unconscious form and he collapsed on his knees next to his fallen Guardian, tearing the cloth to see the injuries better, healing magic already dancing on his fingertips.

With almost all of his concentration focused on saving Seifer's life, he barely registered a man with dark eyes and a bandanna with an odd symbol attempting to take advantage of his distraction to stab him; nor did he notice Scar suddenly appearing to kick the attacker back before he could reach Harry and then taking up position to guard his back and Seifer's while the healing continued.

He merely crouched over his Guardian, murmuring incantation after incantation and letting his White Magic wash gently over him, heedless of how fast he was expending his energy and fairly oblivious to Scar's efforts as well as to whatever was going on on the battlefield at large.

Finally, the bleeding was stopped, the wounds closed into angry scratches, and Seifer groaned and twitched laboriously, fighting to regain consciousness. Harry breathed in relief, resting back on his calves and blinking at the sudden realization that they were still in the middle of a chaotic battle, even if he'd tuned it out in his worry for Seifer.

“Do you think we could move him safely?” asked Scar from right behind him. His rather strained tone was a testimony of how busy he was, keeping them safe in such an exposed position. “Some cover would be helpful.”

“Right,” agreed Harry, but before they could put words into action, a booming explosion rocked the ground a little further away, enveloping them in smoke, while bulky earth debris rained down on them. Scar quickly moved to protect Seifer's body with his own.

Instinctively turning away to shield his eyes from the irritating smoke, Harry caught sight of Itachi still engaged in combat with his odd adversary.

The grey-white blur had turned out to be a pale-skinned man who, unlike all others, wasn't wearing any kind of hood or mask to conceal his vivid green eyes, muscular features, or the two odd scarlet dots on his forehead.

Everything, from the way he dressed to the way he moved and talked, made it clear that he wasn't a wizard. On the contrary, he wore the kind of traditional fighting outfit that Itachi himself might have favoured once upon a time: loose-fitting, long-sleeved shirt, that kept sliding down one shoulder, black pants cut off around mid-calf, bandages wrapped around his ankles, traditional sandals; and the light lavender, rope-like belt tied in an inverted bow around his waist was just the kind of detail highly skilled ninja would add to their attire in a fit of individuality. He also used the sharp, fluid movements only highly trained martial artists acquired.

In fact, many details about him and his fighting style reminded Itachi strongly of his childhood, making him wonder if the white-haired man was originally from his same world.

Certainly, Itachi had been more prepared to face him than any of the others could have been, and had taken in stride the disturbing way in which he manipulated his own skeletal structure to wield his bones as weapons in battle. It was obviously a Blood Limited Ability, though not one Itachi had ever heard of – but then, most Hidden Villages renounced bragging about their clans' best abilities, preferring to keep such essential advantages as under wraps as possible.

The first few exchanges of blows had been enough to establish their skill level in general terms and while outwardly as impassive as usual, inside Itachi had revelled in finding a challenge of such familiarity so far away from his long-abandoned childhood home.

Since his opponent, even counting his odd ability with bones, was restricting himself to martial arts and body-enhancing techniques, Itachi had done the same at first, and with relative ease: despite not specialising in it he possessed high-level hand-to-hand combat skills and they'd only been honed by sparring with Scar on a daily basis; and the small craters his kicks were disseminating on the ground were a testament of his not inconsiderable physical strength.

However, Itachi knew all too well that he couldn't afford to draw the fight out too much.

His stamina had improved tremendously thanks to training with Scar and Seifer: neither of them had been born with the natural gifts of the Uchiha clan, which meant they'd had to build up their abilities a little at a time, and thus they knew how to help Itachi do the same; in spite of this, his endurance was still below average if compared with someone from his home world and he was very conscious of this.

The white-haired ninja, for his part, didn't show the slightest hint of being fatigued, or of slowing down. He was an extremely adept close-range combatant, demonstrating impressive control over his body. His agility and dexterity were almost on par with Itachi's own, though the Guardian's higher proficiency with the Body Flicker Technique gave him a distinct advantage, since he could chase his opponent instantly after a hit struck true, affording him very little time to initiate a counter-attack.

On the other hand, even when he hit his opponent, his efforts didn't seem to do much at all.

The odd Blood Limited Ability was a near-invincible defence, able to withstand most impacts unscathed, even chackra-laden blows. Itachi speculated within himself that it must allow him to manipulate his osteoblast and osteoclast cells, granting him absolute control over the density of his bones, as well as the building and breaking down of bone tissue. It was rather fascinating.

In any case, it meant that Itachi had to work hard to keep himself on the offensive. More than once, only his insanely fast reflexes saved him from being speared by a hastily grown bone. The way the man manipulated them was arresting.

Thus it had taken very little time for Itachi to decide he had to switch the focus of the battle slightly towards what he was more comfortable with.

His adversary, however, had been unfazed by the introduction of Fire Release techniques and shurikens into the fray.

The hand-held throwing blades had been a favourite weapon of his since Itachi could barely walk, and his accuracy in their use had been almost legendary within the Uchiha clan, yet his opponent had dodged his every throw easily, at least until Itachi had resorted to one of his signature moves, summoning a large flock of crows to hide the next barrage. Even then, the white-haired ninja hadn't been much bothered by the many hits – and Itachi acknowledged silently that his skill was admirable, since he'd managed to protect the primary targets, eyes, face, hands or feet, letting only his clothes and torso take damage. He clearly had a very strong determination and endurance, anyway: the thin trails of blood oozing from the many cuts hadn't slowed him down at all, nor had the few burns he'd suffered. He would probably prove to be a deadly opponent even one step away from his own death.

Itachi had to admit that he was enjoying the rare challenge, and more, the bittersweet taste of familiarity he found in it. The predominance of chackra-enhancements, the discreet use of seals – as they fought, Itachi caught sight of a circular pattern of three curved lines tattooed at the base of the white-haired man's throat and his curiosity was picked, though he knew it was likely destined to remain unsatisfied – the rapid gaining and nullifying of advantage after advantage, using every ounce of tactical thinking and every element of their surrounding to turn the tables on their opponent, the way the stranger courteously inquired after an obviously peculiar technique – when Itachi displayed the Uchiha clan's typical giant fireballs in rebuttal to an explosion of bone spikes protruding abruptly from the ground in an attempt to impale him – even as he politely offered the denominations of his own Dances of the Bones in exchange... all spoke to Itachi of the life he'd long ago left behind. And surprisingly, he liked it.

Their fight was following the rhythm Itachi had been used to as a child, too, starting off with standard techniques any academy or clan taught and slowly moving up to better and better ones, in an effort to one-up each other and show themselves superior as much as knock the opponent out.

After all, they were both determined to win, but neither was in any hurry to simply kill. Each recognized in the other the dangerous quality of a high-ranked fighter and their unexpected, but welcome, mutual respect had needed no words to be acknowledged.

From Harry's point of view, even just the glimpse he was getting of the ongoing fight was a truly memorable show.

Itachi was like a lean, cat-like predator, all sharp focus and liquid movement; the white-haired fighter was an extremely powerful combatant, whose obvious strength was made greater by his control: nothing was wasted in his motions.

It was a deadly dance, but quite beautiful to watch.

Still, when he realized they were still at it after he'd healed Seifer, Harry frowned, surprised and worried that his ninja Guardian hadn't yet managed to dispatch his opponent; was the stranger truly that good?

Then he realized that Itachi's attention might seem to be fully on the fight he was engaged in, but his gaze was instead faraway and opaque: he was splitting his focus and still maintaining the Illusion he'd woven at the start, even while fighting.

A bit amazed, a bit worried at what looked like arrogance on the ninja's part, Harry shook his head in wonder, admitting to himself that perhaps, just perhaps... Itachi was having fun.

But the smoke was dissipating and a mocking laugh called him back to the fray, so the young Summoner reluctantly returned his full attention to his other two Guardians: Seifer was still too weak and in pain to do much, so much so that he was supporting himself on his gunblade and looking unsteady, and Scar...

Harry blinked.

There were _two_ Scars standing in the last swirls of dusty smoke, perfectly identical and mirroring each other's pose. Both sported flabbergasted expressions, too. One of them was clearly an excellent actor.

Harry's lips curled in disgust. Yes, on the surface, they looked undistinguishable – they both had Scar's dark complexion and distinctive red irises, not to mention the unique X-shaped scar, they both wore the familiar gold-coloured jacket with the white cross... if Harry bothered to examine the arm tattoo, he had no doubt he would find it identical to the last ink drop.

But only one of them was _his_ Scar. The bond of Summoner to Guardian, that was usually just there in the background of his mind, almost unnoticeable in the hustle and bustle of everyday life, was suddenly singing loud and clear to his soul. There was no possible way he would ever mistake a- a _whoever_ , for one of his own. The imposter was out of luck with this strategy.

Unhesitatingly, he threw a steel knife – the only weapon his Guardians had agreed to teach him to use – at the fake Scar; but the fraud dodged promptly, letting it flew past harmlessly.

He tried to play Harry, though, widening his eyes and twisting his mouth downward in mock horrified surprise: “Harry, wait!” he cried out in Scar's voice.

“Spare me!” the young Summoner said harshly. “Do you really think you could ever trick me like this, you pathetic fool?” He threw another knife, with no better luck than the first. “Looks are irrelevant. You don't _feel_ like my Guardian!”

“Is that so?” Scar's familiar voice was suddenly underlined with sneered cruelty and Harry's eyes narrowed in indignation.

“Give it up!” he shouted harshly. “You won't be able to trick me.”

Frowning, the imposter came to a full stop and rose to Scar's full height. “Then perhaps I shan't bother offering you a show...” he hissed and a line of blinding white light ran over his body in a quick pace, at once dissolving Scar's appearance and leaving behind a different one.

Now he looked like a pale-skinned androgynous teenager, with a lean muscular build and bulging biceps, barely covered by a black form-fitting bodysuit. A matching headband held back a wild mass of long, wispy hair.

Harry wondered if that was his true form, or just a convenient one, and almost flinched at the malevolent, violet pupils that rested on him with clear enmity.

Then the frown changed into a malicious smirk and the quick white light ran its path over the body again, morphing its appearance to Seifer's, complete with cut-filled vest and pants: “Or perhaps I will!”

Faster than thought, he snapped a head-height roundhouse kick at where Harry stood and it was more luck than skill that had the young Summoner roll away with a yelp in time to avoid it.

The imposter laughed harshly: “Tell me. How do you feel, having to fight your own pet?” Another kick, which Harry sort-of parried by swinging his Rod around – and the precious length vibrated unsettlingly under the force of the hit – followed by a punch so fast Harry barely ducked in time – as it was, his goggles were torn from his head and flew away to crash somewhere in the background.

Harry gritted his teeth. All of his concentration was needed to dodge the raining blows, but if he could spare any thought to truly register the mocking words, he'd shout out his rage to the skies.

“Aren't you having fun?” the imposter gloated. He twirled a gunblade that he had somehow reproduced around and around in his raised hand, just like Seifer always did, and laughed again: “I sure am!”

He stilled his arm and Harry braced for another attack, grasping his Rod tightly and whispering hastily “ _Armour of light, halt physical might!_ ” to evoke at least some protection around himself.

Then Scar – the real one – shot past Harry, striking the muscled arm of their enemy to push it off-kilter just as the fake Seifer swung around at the Summoner, his blow half-deflected by Scar's counter-attack and half-sliding over the bluish tortoise-like shell of Harry's Protect shield with an irritating screech.

Wasting no time, Scar kept moving with his momentum, his powerful fist narrowly missing the imposter's face.

The fraud jumped back unbelievably fast, putting some distance between them, and landed heavily on the ground, the impact depressing the soil into a small crater.

Scar growled with revulsion and hatred. “Homunculus!” he hissed with utter disgust.

The shapeshifter burst out laughing hysterically.

Filled with the repugnance and fury those awful constructs always arose in him, the Ishvalan launched another attack immediately, hand flashing out for a punch that was blocked far too easily. He caught the counter-punch the homunculus threw at him in retaliation just as easily, ignoring the pain that flared in his hand from the contact.

And then they were fighting in earnest, blows coming fast and furious, with no time to analyse anything beyond the next step, the next stroke.

While Harry and the real Seifer tried to recover their breath and their shattered concentration, the homunculus pelted Scar with a series of attacks, and the Guardian met every kick and punch with matching ferocity.

The fake Seifer's agility was frightening. It was like he wasn't earthbound like the rest of them, but able to almost fly: he was continuously leaping from one perch to another, barely touching the ground before he was off again. His body moved through the air around it like a sword cleaving through yielding flesh.

Scar was faster than a swift wind, but still he was slow enough for the homunculus to see and counter any move even as he began to make it: he tried again and again to land a blow that the shapeshifter couldn't block, yet failed, over and over. The homunculus was simply too good.

It was only when the real Seifer, having quickly downed a Potion and feeling recovered enough, launched himself into the fray, that they gained a very slight advantage.

The two friends' coordination was such that they moved as one, and smoothly inserting their own moves into their partner's breathers, they maintained an almost continuous barrage of hits that kept the homunculus fully engaged.

Unfortunately, their opponent had an overwhelming advantage over them, in that he didn't get tired: it was not long before the two Guardians were breathing, if not quite hard, not quite easily either and their blows, while still accurate, started becoming less incisive.

Frantically trying to come up with a way to help them, Harry bemoaned the fact that most White Magic, while powerful, needed to be precisely targeted, which made the tangled hand-to-hand fight less than ideal: the last thing they needed was for a stray spell of his to accidentally boost the homunculus even further.

By a stroke of luck Scar managed to fend off a one-two combination punch deftly enough to nearly unbalance the shapeshifter, and Seifer, instantly ready to exploit the opening his partner had provided, went on the offensive: letting the enemy block his weapon's blade, he used that as leverage to hit the homunculus right in the face with the pistol-shaped hilt, holding nothing back, and as the shapeshifter reeled from the blow, he freed the blade and pivoted on himself, slashing a downward thrust on the other's exposed arm.

It worked: the limb was almost cut off and was bleeding freely; in response, the homunculus snarled furiously and, moving too fast to keep track of, shattered Seifer's right arm, knocking his gunblade from his hands.

As Harry rushed to his side and washed the broken bone in the healing glow of a Cure, Scar attempted to press their enemy, leaping sideways and, nearly horizontal in mid-air, snapping a kick at the other's head.

It hit, and hard enough to blow the homunculus backward, but the monster twisted in mid-air and landed on all fours in a cat-like crouch, growling ferally.

And that was when the homunculus turned the table on them. The lightning-quick white line coursed once more over the stolen appearance, this time morphing it... into Harry's.

Same untidy jet-black hair, same lean but tall frame and peculiar fashion sense, same startlingly green, almond-shaped eyes... same, all too familiar expression, warm and welcoming.

Even knowing it wasn't really him, even knowing it was all a trick, even _knowing_ they were being cruelly manipulated, Scar and Seifer faltered.

The combined attack they were about to launch wavered – a hesitation that lasted no more than a second, but long enough to render their effort vain. The monster wearing Harry's face evaded it with insulting ease and laughed – Harry's laugh, bright and clear and _wrong._

“What's the matter? Scared of harming your precious little Summoner?” mocked the homunculus cruelly.

Seifer growled and pounced forward, determined to punch that source of irritation in the face, but the homunculus took a half-step back, mimicking an expression of shock and sudden hurt, widening Harry's eyes pleadingly, and against his will, the Guardian's fist faltered, his blow resulting far less potent than it should have been.

Cartwheeling away with a jeering laugh, the homunculus mocked him again: “You can't bring yourself to hit me now, can you? Ha ha ha! I shouldn't be surprised, you... _humans!_ ” he spit the world like it had a nasty taste, “You always put emotion before common sense!”

He twirled the copy of Harry's rod he'd fashioned for his ruse for a moment, then threw it at Seifer like a javelin, with such force that it split a crack of several feet open in the ground where it hit after the Guardian had hastily thrown himself aside to dodge it.

“That's just how all you humans are!” shouted the homunculus. It was clear that he was taking great delight in tormenting them. “The last man I killed... all I had to do was make myself look like his daughter and he was helpless - he couldn't even fight me! You humans are so easy to take advantage of!”

Scar roared in frustration, furious with himself for letting the abomination play with his emotions like that – and to add insult to injury, the real Harry was not ten steps from him, yelling encouragements! It was beyond ridiculous... it was pathetic!

And yet... and yet. When Seifer and he tried to rally, and charged the homunculus, there was an almost buried hesitancy underlying their movements that spelled disaster for their attack. They couldn't help it: no matter what their minds were screaming at them about appearances and deceit, there was something deep inside them that revolted against harming their Lord Summoner’s form.

And the homunculus took shameless advantage of that.

Seifer was blown to the side, flying through the air and crashing violently against a tree trunk. Scar managed to dodge the first kick at least, then realized in a split second he wouldn't be able to avoid the following fist – the homunculus was too fast – so chose to grab the arm with both his hands instead, trapping it in a vicious grip in an effort to stop it... he managed – barely – but with a malevolent smirk, the monster transformed the trapped limb into a flesh-coloured tentacle with an impossibly sharp end that elongated abruptly and pierced his shoulder.

Scar's eyes widened in shock and fear and he had less than a moment to berate himself – why hadn't he thought of this possibility, Lust had been able to do the same with those unnatural claws of hers! – before the spiked appendage twisted away and struck again, piercing his lower belly, making blood and gore spurt onto the shaken ground.

Harry cried out and swung his Rod around, in the attempt to form a Curaga for him, but the shockingly fast homunculus didn't give him the time and, abandoning Scar to collapse where he stood, rushed the young Summoner, disrupting his concentration – the spell was lost, to Harry's chagrin – and spinning the spiked tentacle around, hit him unerringly in the shoulder. The blow crashed through his Protect shield as if it wasn't there and his bones fractured with an excruciating pain; Harry couldn't help screaming.

At once, the cry was echoed from the other side of the battlefield by another, tortured scream and though his vision was blurred by pain, Harry forced himself to turn enough to see Itachi running at his full speed towards him, his opponent crumbled and forgotten.

The ninja Guardian might have been enjoying his fight, but a part of him had remained alert to the other, more important battle going on, only his utter confidence about being ultimately able to draw his own struggle to a close very quickly if necessary allowing him to indulge himself like that.

And no matter how he'd come to respect his opponent, the moment his Lord Summoner's scream signalled that he was in real danger, all bets were off.

Dropping the Illusion he'd kept up all along – with barely a thought for the few victims still standing, pained and disoriented – he changed his motions on the fly, leaping and grabbing and twisting, to force the white-haired ninja to meet his gaze, black swirls already spinning on suddenly red irises: determined to put an end to his fight at once, he called up the most devastating Illusion he could slap together in no time at all, 'suggesting' pain and paralysis and heart-stopping terror, and didn't even bother checking the results properly, beyond registering the torment in the white-haired fighter's verdigris eyes fading into unconsciousness.

Sparing no thought for the fallen adversary at all, in less than an instant he was running to his Lord Summoner's side.

The homunculus snapped his stolen eyes up and burst out into a mean laughter, jumping eagerly to meet the running ninja at equal speed, changing in mid-stride to his androgynous teenager appearance and shouting with glee: “What? Is this Christmas? Here comes another pathetic fool, free of charge! I will have such fun breaking you... I'll yank your spine out of your mouth! And then I'll kill your pitiful little friends...”

In a flash, the two combatants were meeting half-way with a resounding crash.

Quickly, a still panting Seifer skidded on his knees to Harry's side, then lifted him bodily and whisked him away to deposit him behind a fallen tree trunk – the nearest cover – before dashing back for Scar.

Harry grasped listlessly at the charred wood, uselessly hoping it would somehow lend him the strength to ignore the pain he was in. When Seifer darted behind the cover again with a bleeding, gasping Scar in his arms, he gritted his teeth, realizing that if he didn't pull himself together they were all goners.

“What can I do?” asked Seifer frantically. “Harry. Harry, look at me! What can I do?”

Harry blinked the blur out of his eyes, grimacing at the pulsating pain in his shoulder.

“Harry, tell me how I can help!” Seifer sounded almost pleading, and if Harry could just think, he'd wonder about that. The gunblader was fluttering from one to the other of his injured comrades, uncharacteristically lost: he clearly knew not what to do for either and it wasn't settling well with him. “Give me something to do before I go spare!” he half-cried.

Swallowing the desire to scream or cry, Harry fumbled with one of his many pouches and somehow managed to produce two Hi Potions. Relieved, Seifer snatched them up, pouring one down Scar's throat before gently helping Harry swallow his.

The rapid knitting of bone and tissue was excruciating, pure agony, but at least it was quick.

It was all over in a matter of minutes, and Harry took deep breaths, moving his shoulder to check its mobility. It was unimpaired, thankfully, and he felt fine, if tired. By the looks of it, Scar was recovered too.

“I don't know what's worse, the pain of the healing, or the taste of this stuff,” he grumbled and Seifer chuckled, relaxing a little more. Harry half-smiled as well, agreeing that the typical taste of bitter sawdust was a big downside of Potions. Magic was _so_ much better. Speaking of which...

Closing his eyes to block out the sounds of fighting, Harry quickly evaluated what strength he had left and heartily cursed the bad luck of having used their Ethers already, in the earlier fight against the Aeon. His reserves were dangerously low.

There was an option... a spell he had thought up himself and had been studying and perfecting for a while now... If it worked as Harry intended it, it would slowly, but surely, restore their physical and spiritual energies over a span of time. And he had just the energy for it left.

Uncertain, he tried to decide whether or not to risk it. It was still experimental... and far from mastered... but it was probably their best chance too, under the circumstances.

Grasping his Rod tightly, he gathered all his concentration and pushed himself to his feet, ignoring Seifer's half-hearted protests. Then he turned on the spot, the motion swift and graceful, balanced on one heel, his body rotating compactly around his centre of gravity, shoulders drawing back for an instant, before bending in a half-bow. “ _Let streams of hope refresh us and restore us,_ ” he whispered hurriedly.

To his immense relief, he felt the magic of the spell take, rushing out of him in a wave and smoothly taking the shape he'd intended for it.

Iridescent ribbons of light swirled around the three of them in large, flowing snakes, their faint red tinge growing more and more intense before they vanished in a shower of faint golden specks, that settled slowly on them. Not an instant later, he felt the first, tiny boost to his almost emptied reserves and smiled victoriously.

Seifer smiled too: “Cool.” He flexed his fist absently, looking pleased. “This going to heal us a little bit at a time? Like Regen?”

Harry silently nodded, and Seifer repeated: “Cool.”

Scar inclined his head in thanks, and they all turned to look at the ongoing face-off.

Itachi had taken over the fight with grim ferocity and was holding his own a lot better than the three of them had – mostly, they guessed almost at once, because he was completely unfazed by whatever shape the homunculus tried to morph into. Something that was clearly frustrating their enemy greatly.

The dangerous shapeshifter was obviously used to playing on his target's emotions in order to have a psychological advantage before killing; but against Itachi, the tactic was pretty much futile. The Transformation Technique was such a common and abundantly used tool among even the most inexperienced of ninjas, that fighting enemies that looked like your own comrades was practically routine. Consequently, Itachi had since childhood relied on different methods to tell friend apart from foe.

The homunculus had already tried wearing both the other Guardians' faces, then the Summoner's, to absolutely no avail, and he was growing more and more peeved at this new, imperturbable opponent.

After a few more blows, exchanged more to get each other's measure than anything, the shapeshifter decided to attempt a different tactic: with a quick passage of the shuddering line of light, he turned himself into a little girl of five or six, with a pretty yellow dress, huge brown eyes and a cute short ponytail held by two beads on a rubber band, fluffing up atop her head.

She looked adorable.

But Itachi had been thrown onto a battlefield at age four himself, and remembered what kind of devastation a seemingly sweet and innocent child could bring if trained – underestimating an opponent or feeling guilty about going all out against a child was not an option among ninja clans. Impassively, he pelted the sweet-looking girl with short burst of streaming flames that she only barely dodged; it was not long before the homunculus regained his androgynous form with a snarl.

Beyond irritated that his strategy wasn't paying off for once, he was growing both enraged and careless. He had to fall back to overwhelming his opponent with his superior speed, but that, too, didn't work very well, as Itachi was just as fast, and moreover, he had no compunction in tricking his opponent. After the fourth time in a row the shapeshifter punched or kicked straight through the ninja's body, only to see it dissolve in a storm of black crows, he shouted in sheer rage and refrained from attacking again. He just stood straight, glaring furiously at the ninja.

Taking advantage of the lull in the fighting, Scar and Seifer came up to Itachi's sides, flanking him calmly, both slipping in their favourite combat forms, ready to support their friend.

Mouth twisting in disgust, their enemy spit on the ground in their direction.

A long moment of silent stretched.

Then, coolly, Itachi commented: “You're a fool.”

That tore an inarticulate shout of rage from the homunculus, who for an instant looked ready to charge the ninja again; but then a sudden thought stuck him and he calmed somewhat, observing him closely with a calculating gaze: “You think you can fight... anyone?” he asked, voice dangerously low.

Itachi merely regarded him steadily.

The homunculus smirked and asked slowly: “But can you fight... yourself?”

And a moment later another Itachi – absolutely identical to him down to the last detail, except for the smirk that didn't remotely mirror his stoic expression – stood right in front of him.

Another heartbeat, and the fake Itachi launched himself at him with unnatural speed, engaging him in a fast and furious close quarter.

Scar and Seifer held themselves at the ready, but the fast-paced struggle wasn't leaving any opening for them.

It was also messy and jumbled, as if the homunculus was less concerned with hitting Itachi and more intent on deliberately kicking up as much dust as possible, and a moment later Itachi realized why, when they abruptly separated, both jumping back a few meters to take a breath, and suddenly even the expression on the other's face was exactly his own.

Itachi wasn't bothered. The other should have realized by now, that the looks of whoever he was fighting meant less than nothing to him. Or was he hoping to confuse his allies enough to prevent them from offering help?

It didn't matter.

They knew each other so well, that all he had to do was twitch his fingers in code to signal his position and coordinate their next attack just as well as if they'd used words. The homunculus couldn't hope to break apart that mutual reliance, born of friendship and shared lives.

Rushing him all together, they soon had the monster bleeding and bruised, and scrambling to keep up with their barrage of blows.

Snarling with rage, the homunculus tried to go back to the Summoner's form, that had worked so well against his enemies earlier; but this time, there was Itachi to lead their charge, and to cover the fractional hesitations of the other two.

Step, strike, block, whirl – the three friends moved in perfect accord, as smoothly and precisely as if this was just one of their daily practice kata: block, push, feint, _strike_ , one after the other without glitches or indecisions, speeding up as they went, pressing the shapeshifter harder and harder until he was retreating backwards with each move.

“You're all pathetic!” shouted the homunculus, but his confident smirk was belied by the fury and envy blazing in his eyes.

He was being cornered. And he knew it.

“No. No, no, no, no! This can't be!” he yelled in fury and fear. “You... are just pitiful humans! How can you fight me like this? …humans... love to watch other people suffer while making fools of themselves... that's why you're constantly at war with each other!”

He tried one last time to grab Scar and throw him against a tree, but the Ishvalan flew with the motion, not fighting it, but instead going down in a controlled fall and bouncing back up before the homunculus could take advantage of his momentary weakness; and it was instead the shapeshifter who was distracted enough to let Seifer strike him.

The blond Guardian drove his gunblade through the homunculus and all the way to the tree trunk behind him, Scar helping by adding his strength to the momentum, until the monster was pinned like a butterfly mounted for display.

“No way... NO WAY!” shouted the homunculus, struggling against the resolute grip the two Guardians were maintaining on him. “You don't cooperate! You play sick games! Fight each other! Grovel in the dirt! How could you ever hope to team up? There's no way. No. No, you can't! Never! NEVER! It's impossible! How could you? How could you do it? HOW!?"

“Don't bother trying to make sense of our friendship,” Itachi told him disdainfully. “You cannot even comprehend the deep connection we share.”

"Don't look down on me, you WORMS!"

Itachi didn't deign the bellowed retort of any consideration; his eyes swirled and bled to the colour of blood again, then he closed them for a long instant, and when he snapped open the right one, the usual commas had been replaced by a pointy triskell.

Scar and Seifer leaped away from the homunculus, clearing the path for the scorching black fire that roared into existence, perfectly controlled, and perfectly unstoppable.

It was the most powerful of Itachi's Blood Limited techniques and although the price was high (he knew Harry was going to yell at him for this later, because his eyesight would only worsen after every time he used it, and not even the Summoner's magic would prevent him from eventually going blind if he wasn't careful), this was no doubt a time that called for it.

The all-consuming flames could burn anything, including fire itself, yet even so, the body of the homunculus kept regenerating itself again and again through the raging inferno, until, after longer than was reasonable to expect, it turned at last to black, powdery ash that fell to the ground in the sudden silence.

Itachi let the black flames taper off as Harry and the others came up to him and the four of them gathered close, silently watching the smoke dissipate. When it dispersed, the Summoner stood among his Guardians, straight and proud and inscrutable, the three painting a powerful picture around him.

In the wake of the devastating attack, a nasal voice shouted out from the trees: “Now! They must be exhausted...! Now's the time! Attack!”

Harry groaned. Was this never going to end?

From the cover of the trees, no more than a dozen men ran out, most of them in the black robes and white masks labelling them as wizards; more than half of them looked reluctant, even as they raised their wands.

Seifer caught his fellow Guardians' eye. A rapid exchange of hand signs was enough to coordinate them. The gunblader marshalled his tired body and cast the most powerful shield in his dwindling stock, knowing that he wouldn't be able to keep it up for long, but also that he wouldn't need to, and started bellowing insults to keep the attackers' attention on himself while they bombarded his shield with weak spells.

Behind the light blue protection, Scar's strong arm encircled the young Summoner’s shoulders and Harry sank against his trusted side gratefully, feeling rather exhausted.

Meanwhile, Itachi slipped away, silent as a shadow, and quickly circling behind these last scattered ranks, he wove an Illusion once more.

A moment later, a fire wall that emanated no heat ran in a fast, straight line between his three comrades and the remaining enemies, shrouding each other from view. Itachi took advantage of the cover to silently reappear at their side.

As abruptly as it had started, the fire wall vanished. In its wake, the few wizards and combatants still standing were all screaming and running around like headless chickens, clawing at their own eyes or ears. One went so far as to thump his own head against a tree trunk, repeatedly.

“I don't even want to know,” commented Scar in mid-voice.

“You're scary, Stoic Kid,” Seifer shook his head. “Damn cool, but scary.”

“But brilliant,” said Harry softly, his expression sad.

Scar squeezed him gently, his arm comforting but heavy on his shoulder. “You are not at fault. You are not responsible for their actions. Not even indirectly.”

Harry nodded uncertainly. “Let's go,” he said tiredly.

They made their way out of the Forest in what seemed like an interminably long time.

Harry felt wrung out. All he wished was to hide out in his room for a while, come to terms with things. Catch his breath if nothing else.

But of course, it couldn't be that simple.

Not ten steps from the border of the forest, rows and rows of eager, overexcited students were laying in wait.

As soon as they appeared, they were welcomed by a round of resounding applause, shouts and catcalls; many were calling out to him. Or to his Guardians... especially Seifer.

Harry grimaced when he noticed that the teachers were attempting to corral the teenagers into some sort of wide circle. And that the adults looked almost as excited as the students.

He sighed. It was pretty clear what they hoped for. Truthfully, Harry didn't blame them in the least: he knew it was part of his duties, in a way, and had certainly not begrudged the villagers of Besaid when they'd gathered to bear witness to his first success... Just because he'd been lucky enough to avoid having to show off after the first time, it didn't mean he could – or would – back out of it now that, like on Spira, people knew what to expect and, well, expected it.

But had there been the slightest chance of avoiding it, Harry would have seized it gratefully.

With an unnoticeable sigh, he moved to the centre of the improvised arena, trying to ignore how his Guardians were glaring everybody into cowedly keeping their distance with even more determination than usual. When he stopped and the three of them fanned out, leaving him, so to say, on stage, the crowd went wild.

Too tired and cranky to launch into the Invocation of a newly acquired Aeon, however, Harry found himself wondering if he could get away with a little cheating. When he tentatively probed his Aeons' opinion, he got back a feeling of amused agreement from all of them, even the last one.

Rather relieved, he went through the motions to evoke his very first Aeon.

Light shot up from the circle he created like a translucent foam and converged to form a bright star atop his head, bright and luminous against the unexpected dark clouds that seemed to have appeared only over the circle. Much like that day so long ago, the winged lion-like creature fell fast from a spinning vortex of clouds and glided regally down to him, eagerly nuzzling the hand Harry raised to pet its eagle head.

The magnificent creature was an instant hit: all of the teenagers whooped and crowed and generally behaved like a crazed crowd at the blitzball final and many a flash went off from cameras scattered among the crowd, sometimes accompanied with an odd purple smoke.

Harry ignored them all and smiled at the Aeon, stroking its feathers gently. “Thank you,” he murmured inaudibly, conveying all his gratitude along their bond, to him, and to the others so far away and so close.

Barely a couple minutes later, though, he released the Aeon, the strain starting to get to him, and in a moment, his Guardians were closing rank around him, shielding him from the crowd, to his enormous relief. Had someone got close enough to demand an autograph right then, he wasn't sure he could have kept his composure.

Unfortunately, while the students could be intimidated, there was no avoiding the row of shiny-eyed teachers in the same way. The Headmaster in primis came up to him, arms outstretched, looking as giddy as a schoolboy on his first day.

“My dear boy... such a wondrous...”

Harry, however, was not in the mood: “We were attacked by black-clad men with white masks,” he said abruptly. His clipped tone arrested the gaggle of cooing adults as much as the words themselves. “On our way back, _after_ we'd completed our task,” he clarified.

Distressed sounds and dismayed exclamations broke out from the gathered teachers. The Headmaster looked sad and grave: “Alas! I feared... we are at war, my Lord Summoner, and...”

“You knew?!” Scar rounded on him, outraged. “You expected something like this and didn't think to warn us?”

“Well, I...”

“Never mind,” Harry interrupted brusquely, unwilling to enter a discussion right that minute, with exhaustion pressing down on his shoulder like a heavy coat. “We're going to rest, now.”

“Of course! Of course...!”

“But afterwards,” he spoke over the hasty reassurances of the old man, raising his voice just a little, “I will expect explanations.”

The Headmaster looked uncomfortable: “Well, I...”

“In the meanwhile,” said Harry with clipped precision, “you would do well to contact the local authorities and have them investigate.” A heartbeat. “And collect the bodies.”

Horrified gasps echoed that short specification. The Headmaster went so pale his skin looked like cold ash. Many teachers looked shocked and scared. Only the acerbic wizard with dark, oily hair they had already agreed to keep under careful watch spoke up, though: “What do you mean... _what did you do?_ ” he snarled, his tone surly and accusatory.

All three Guardians swung to glare at him at once, their fury so apparent it almost gave the impression of rising flames.

“Our Summoner was _attacked_ ,” hissed Itachi furiously. Somehow, he spit out the last word in such a way that it was heard as the most despicable, heinous crime ever.

“Did you truly expect us to leave those bastards standing?” demanded Seifer, venomous, his contemptuous glare implying the dark man was a moron for even entertaining the notion.

“They're lucky we're not going after their families!” spat out Scar, just as vicious.

An awkward silence ensued, filled with pale, shocked faces staring at them in horror, that parted hastily before Seifer's determined stride, inching away from them and closer to each other.

Harry didn't let it faze him in the least and merely followed the tall blond's form, drawing his cloak tighter around himself, Itachi hovering close like a protective shadow.

Scar treated the rest of them to a last, vicious and contemptuous glare, before hurrying after them.


	12. Scheming Minds

Orochimaru crushed the scroll in his hands, trembling with impotent fury.

It had arrived through the fire, of all things – one of many despicable innovations that foreign bastard had forced on all of them – and contained his next set of orders.  _Orders_ . Which he, Orochimaru, was  _expected to carry out._ Gaargh!

How had that damn Voldemort gained the upper hand?

He was Orochimaru! The Hebi-Sannin! Snake Lord and Oto-Kage! One of the most powerful shinobi in the world! How,  _how_ could he have been manipulated so?

It was inconceivable! No-one, no-one had ever been able to withstand him! Not any enemy, not anyone in his village; not his former teammates, not even his Sensei, fool that he was. 

Sure he’d deprived him of the title of Hokage that was rightfully his… but now, years later, he could see things in perspective. He would have been a good, strong Hokage. Too strong.

Minato-kun was the light in everyone’s eyes, the beloved poster boy for the masses. With his lightning fast teleportation and his flashy techniques and his bright blond hair - everybody loved him… but he was also easily manipulated. Yes, he was nothing more than a poster boy to enchant the masses while his old Sensei would continue to pull the strings from behind the scene. As evidenced by his taking back his title once Minato managed to get himself killed…

Yes, yes, he could understand it now. He could even approve – such ambition drew admiration and it was his own fault for not having seen it and manipulated it in his favour, back in his youth.

In any case he’d shown them… he’d become Kage anyway – of a Hidden Village that lacked, perhaps, Konoha’s long tradition, but was certainly more progressive. His experiments had slowly made him a power to be reckoned with…

So how, how could he have been reduced to this!

That damn… wizard… was pulling his strings and he didn’t even know when he’d become entangled! It was unbearable!

But how to regain the upper hand?

A frisson of unease went through him as his mind strayed yet again towards his  _other_ ally. Was that man his longed-for chance to rid himself of the hated off-worlder... or another string-puller ready to choke him with an even worse servitude? That he was powerful was undoubtedly true, but was that a good thing? Or another danger he was blinding himself to?

Uncertainties he was unaccustomed to plagued him.

No, no. He was Orochimaru the Hebi Sannin. He wasn't a follower: he would not bend nor fall in line. He would scheme and influence and act as he needed; his allies might seem to have the advantage now, but it was only temporary. He would regain the upper hand. He  _would_ achieve his goals!

Letting the scroll of loathed  _instructions_ fall to the ground without care, he lost himself in ineffectual plotting.

* * *

Ultimecia was confused.

Charmed by the strange man who had powers similar to her own – though how that could be possible, she knew not, for he was most definitely male – she’d let him closer than she’d meant to and now, somehow, she’d lost control of the situation.

At first she’d thought about making him her Knight… but somehow… somehow things hadn’t turned out as she expected. At all.

He was in control, and she wasn’t sure what he was using her for, only that he was.

Feeling nervousness and anger rise inside her in a powerful wave, she raised a hand and started stroking the gorgeous diadem he had gifted her with. It always calmed her down, the smooth gold lulling and pleasing under her touch; it made her feel as if someone was murmuring comforting words right in her ear.

Was it so very bad if he was using her, for the time being? Once she reached her goal, it would not matter in the least.

Oh, she knew he didn't expected her to manage. He indulged her plan, but clearly didn’t think much of it.

Well, she would show him! She would show everybody!

She’d achieve Time Compression and rule over everything – forever!

Then he, too, would bow to her… and come to her as a proper supplicant… one she would graciously accept as Consort, like she’d dreamed of doing from the very first moment… after all, he was so attractive… powerful… charming…

She lost herself in a little daydream.

* * *

Pride wasn’t too upset at how things were turning out, however unexpected some twists were.

He loved power, but he’d never truly been anything but a follower, albeit a high-level one. Not a common soldier, by far; but no true leader either.

There was some relief in enjoying the delicious rush of being in charge – feared, revered, obeyed – but not having to weigh his every action against the wider picture, the underlying plan.

Let someone else worry about long-term goals and bigger scopes. He revelled in triumphing in the little tasks, crushing the worms around him day-to-day. Standing tall among the crawling, cowering humans.

So really, that this Voldemort was pulling the strings didn't faze him too much, especially since the 'wizard' didn't like Amestris much and pretty much left ‘Bradley’ to his own devices.

Sometimes he missed Dante, perhaps. She’d been easier to understand… easier to manipulate. But the too-old alchemist had been dispatched easily and this new master… Voldemort… he understood Alchemy on a whole other level.

He didn’t just bribe the Homunculi to do his bidding. He truly controlled them. A disquieting notion...

Still, Pride was in charge of Amestris and would remain so; it wasn’t too bad, all in all.

At times, too, he wondered about the rumours of a Summoner and what they might come to mean for him. He didn’t have a clear idea about what a Summoner was, but it wasn’t hard to guess that the title accompanied true, great power. Pride could almost smell it in the air.

Perhaps this Summoner would replace Voldemort, just as the ‘wizard’ had replaced Dante? It wasn’t inconceivable... Pride wasn’t sure what to think of it. He couldn’t begin to guess what kind of master this Summoner would make.

Perhaps, perhaps, Voldemort crushing this uprising threat would be for the best: it was doubtful than any change in the situation would be for the better, from Pride’s point of view.

His identity as King Bradley, Führer of Amestris, was so perfectly suited to his tastes that he could lick his lips in delight just by thinking of it. His duty was, essentially, to control the country – a heady feeling indeed; he was the respected Commander-in-Chief of the State Military, and no-one,  _no-one_ dared question him openly - no matter how tenuously justified his decisions might be, no matter how bizarrely or whimsically he might act at times, just for the hell of it.

The power he wielded was satisfyingly intoxicating and the wide-spread respect he commanded was like a perpetual caress to his superiority.

He wasn't even required to interact with the other homunculi much anymore; which, really, suited him just fine. It had always been grating, how close to his strength and power they were, even though he was assured of his own supremacy. It felt maliciously good, that they were all dispatched to second-rate operations, while he, Pride, was in charge of an entire world – or close enough to satisfy him.

Yes, if it came to that, he would fight this Summoner, supporting Voldemort with all of his power and greatness, ensuring the continuation of his own, intoxicating domination over Amestris. At all costs.

* * *

Voldemort carelessly dwindled the wine glass in his hand by its delicate stem, letting the garnet red wine it contained swish and swirl gently, while he stared unseeingly at the subdued flames in the hearth he stood before, mind a million miles away.

He'd been caught off-guard by this Summoner business.

He'd known nothing of it: yet another instance where his muggle upbringing put him in a position of weakness! It was unacceptable!

He'd been forced to put a prisoner through a thoroughly cruel session of torture to get every information the weak sod had on Summoners, eagerly storing it all in the recesses of his mind while all along pretending he was just making fun of his victim by forcing him to go over commonly known facts, pretending the questions were merely a pretext for torture rather than the other way round.

Thankfully, none of his supposedly faithful servants seemed to have realized his ruse... But still. The fact grated on his nerves so badly that he'd been left in a foul mood a whole week and as a consequence, he'd lost a number of useless grunts to his own short temper.

Good thing they were, as already pointed out, useless; nevertheless, it was beyond irritating.

He sank bonelessly into his armchair, handsome face drawn into a frown as he delved more and more deeply into his thoughts, reviewing and rearranging and reorganizing his plans.

Voldemort wasn't stupid.

Cruel, undoubtedly; sadistic even. Insane, possibly, although he preferred to think of himself as a visionary with a broader horizon than the blind worms he was surrounded by.

But never stupid, no.

He knew most of his enemies gave him less credit than he was due. Cunning, he was readily admitted to be; but most did not truly believe him to be smart. The more fools them, because in truth,  _he was._

How else could he have risen as high as he had, when the very world that was the theatre of his success was skewed against him, an underprivileged half-blood?

One of the reasons for his success was his way of seeing things within things, recognize patterns in reality and magic that remained hidden to the common people.

That was what allowed him to use his considerable power so efficiently and remain in charge rather than being used like an amazingly powerful, but ultimately easily manipulated, pawn.

Now, as had often happened in the past, he was seeing the signs and unlike most, he could read them. They were warning signs – signs of danger ahead on his path to greatness, of perils not readily apparent to the lesser minds.

A powerful Summoner... Guardians from different worlds - others might be blind, but he'd recognized the styles of clothes and speech and combat... Green eyes - engraved in his memory, branded as if by fire that ill-fated night that shattered his power once upon a time... and that damning confirmation from his most trusted spy...

He was no fool.

He understood how magic worked better than most; he knew it was always balanced. It took an effort – an effort beyond the power of most – to tilt the balance.

That's why he'd been so alert for whoever might be exploiting the worlds, was taking advantage of the connections the way he himself was; he had expected someone else to do just that and they would, obviously, oppose him, like he himself would strenuously oppose them. He’d been vigilant and watchful... and yet – yet he'd missed it!

When he couldn’t find any trace of an opposing force to his own rising power, he’d grown careless. He'd come to hope his opponent had got himself killed on his own, a plausible notion, perhaps, but dangerous to believe.

He’d been foolish. Overconfident.  _Stupid_ .

This was, had to be, the boy of the Prophecy! Green eyes that still haunted him after all these years... power equal to his own – not the same, no; but of similar might nonetheless... and the ability to walk through different worlds... yes, everything fit.

The reports talked of the ease with which he'd defeated Envy and it made Voldemort nervous. Oh, the construct was expendable of course, but its loss was worrisome nonetheless.

This Summoner was a tough opponent. A real danger. A threat that should have been handled before it could rise at all.

And for all his attentiveness, Voldemort had missed his cue.

Had it been any of his subordinates who made such a mistake, they would be suffering under his Cruciatus by now.

His dark eyes narrowed with steely determination.

No matter. There was still time to fix this potential fiasco before it became a débâcle. So far he hadn’t been able to prepare any kind of trap for the newly risen Summoner, because no-one seemed able to predict his movements, and he wasn’t foolish enough to risk walking into one himself: he’d learned his lesson years before in Godric’s Hollows. His spies were alerted, though. As soon as this phantom menace showed himself anywhere within his domain...

Plans within plans swirled through his bright, sharp mind.

He'd be ready.

A harried minion arrived with a message, out of breath and anxious: “My Lord! The Lord Summoner has been recognized in Deling City!”

Voldemort set up straight at once. “In Galbadia?” he frowned, puzzled and tense like a hound scenting its prey.

“Yes, my Lord!”

Voldemort held very still for a long moment, balancing his options: “Dispatch all the homunculi at once. Order the Garden’s Headmaster to gather whatever SeeDs and combat-ready pupils he has at hand. Send over reinforcements from Otogakure as well.” He rose majestically. “The Guardians must be killed and he, brought to me. Unharmed.”

Oh, yes. He was going to be _ready_.


	13. The Alchemy of Complications

The day after the battle in the Forest, after a good night's rest and a delicious breakfast, Harry felt more well-disposed towards the world.

His Guardians, on the other hand, were still furious at the wizards surrounding them and were not restrained in making their displeasure known, scowling darkly at anyone who so much as looked at him for too long. They weren't going to forget – or forgive – anytime soon, the fact that someone had dared touch him.

If Harry were honest, however, the way their hissed displeasure was unnerving the wizards and keeping them at a distance, probably had a part in his feeling better.

He felt like the warm rays of morning sunshine pouring down from the amazing sky-like ceiling of the Great Hall were cocooning him in a small bubble of peace. That his Guardians would not let any of the unnerved, whining or demanding wizards burst it was a gift he relished and treasured.

Nevertheless, he couldn't ignore the rest of the world for long and right after the children were sent off to their classes, he allowed the Headmaster to corral them to his office.

The fact that no-one else was included in the meeting meant he still felt relaxed enough to smile politely.

Itachi and Seifer made a point to check the small room they were taken to before joining Scar where he stood forbiddingly behind the chair Harry took, alternately scanning their surroundings and glaring at the Headmaster.

Dumbledore sighed but did not try to stop them or appease them in any way. He looked old and frail and tired and oddly powerful, filled with wise patience and a kind of quiet power that invited reliance, even faith.

Harry however didn't have much attention to spare him at first, as he was completely fascinated by Dumbledore's office and the thousand and one trinkets that filled it, his Al-Bhed upbringing plus O'aka's influence plus natural curiosity combining to make the circular room and its intriguing content a veritable cave of wonders for the young Summoner. He wished he had half a dozen eyes to see and examine everything, and a year or two to ask all the questions springing to his mind and then study the answers.

Sadly it was not to be, and biting back a sigh, he took a seat in front of the old wizard, who was smiling indulgently at his curiosity. It was hard to keep still when he felt an itch to examine all of the fascinating knickknacks, but the grave and grim countenance of his Guardians helped him keep his focus on the situation at hand.

He took a breath to ask the first of his many questions, but with skilful timing, the Headmaster beat him to it.

“That was an amazing spectacle you granted us yesterday, Lord Summoner,” he said, benign and humble. His eyes glittered unnervingly. “It was a joy for the heart and the mind at once and I thank you deeply. I must confess a scholar’s curiosity, however. May I ask...?”

He trailed off and Harry raised an eyebrow at his evident uncertainty.

With a slight, embarrassed cough, the aged Headmaster tried again, looking a little uncomfortable: “When you called forth your Aeon, the ground beneath your feet blared with Circles.”

Harry blinked, momentarily surprised because he’d heard the capital letter in that word, but still, not entirely understanding why the wizard was so ill at ease.

The Headmaster looked at him stonily and précised: “Trasmutation Circles.”

Harry frowned, uncomprehending, but Scar, hit with sudden understanding, focused sharply on the aged wizard. “You’re an Alchemist,” he stated with certainty.

Dumbledore tensed sharply for an instant, almost bristling, but then he forced himself to relax all at once. “I am,” he sighed. “One of the only three left…” His eyes met Scar’s with equal sharpness. “Or so I thought.”

The not-quite-accusation hung in the air.

Harry scowled. Without even much effort, the man they’d come to interrogate had pushed them into defensiveness. One had to admire him, really... but why, exactly, should he feel guilty? And of what?

“I do not understand the source of your unease,” said Itachi in an unnerving monotone.

Scar muttered something incomprehensible, face dark, but turned away when they glanced at him.

“There is no record of Alchemy being the base for a Summoner’s power,” said Dumbledore rigidly.

“Well, it’s not,” replied Harry with a shrug. “I use it for bombs and such... although, if you listen to Scar, that’s not Alchemy.”

“It isn’t, not how we intend it,” nodded the dark-skinned Guardian. “It’s more... chemistry, I guess. Mix and match formulas.”

Dumbledore nodded slowly: “There is, of course, a base of Potions to certain branches of Alchemy...”

“...But it isn’t the point of true Alchemy,” completed Scar.

“No, not really,” agreed Dumbledore. Then he leaned back, regarding the tall Guardian. “So _you_ are an Alchemist, then,” he mused thoughtfully.

Scar’s reaction was swift and furious: “I am NOT!” he roared, starting everybody. “I may have studied that tainted art but I have not followed that foul temptation into its abyss. I will _never_ be like them!”

Harry regarded his Guardian with surprise. His vehemence was unexpected to say the least.

He hadn’t bothered learning much about the strain of Alchemy diffused in Scar’s home world: what he did when interacting with the Aeons, he did by instinct, without study nor deliberate understanding, and what he did following Rikku’s recipes or trying out his own was, as already pointed out, a whole other matter.

He did, however, have a general idea of it. It was only natural, after all, that they talked about their respective cultures, compared their various approaches to magic and battle in general, chat about their differences and similarities... It wasn’t as if they spent much time discussing the philosophy and beliefs behind what they did, but they _had_ exchanged opinions.

Now Harry was rather perplexed by his Guardian’s attitude.

Although Scar had explained the way his culture despised the idea of giving new form to one of God's creations, the young Summoner had gained the impression that the Ishvalan had braved the stigma for reasons he wasn’t willing to share.

After all, was his arm not a tool of Alchemy as he intended it? From what Harry’d gleaned of Scar’s technique, it wasn’t all that different from what other Alchemists in his homeworld did: the very fact that he had to study the makeup of objects he wished to destroy (or at least guess it) made him an amateur Alchemist by practice, regardless of his haughty protests that it was the arm, and not he himself, that performed Alchemy.

So his posturing wasn’t altogether logical.

But then, very little about that world had seemed logical to Harry, despite the fact that it was entirely rational, at least on the surface. For instance, didn’t his own magical talent – the magic he evoked in battle or to heal, not his Summoner’s powers – break the supposedly unavoidable Equivalent Exchange Principle in many small ways?

About the only thing that made sense to him of the whole philosophy was the fact that an Alchemist is unable to deconstruct or form an item whose composition he does not comprehend. Rikku’s first and last lesson had been just that – if you don’t understand it, you can’t do it and shouldn’t even try – Harry could still hear her bright voice, interspersed with cheerful Al-Bhed curses, happily condemning him to study and study and _more study_ before attempting anything interesting.

Seifer, always one to speak bluntly, asked carelessly: “Don’t you use Alchemy when you blow up something with that arm of yours?”

Scar snarled and Harry grabbed his arm tightly to calm him.

“You do follow the cyclical flow of transmutation,” he murmured to his Guardian, almost apologetically. “It’s just that you stop at deconstruction, instead of reshaping your target.”

“And that makes all the difference,” ground out Scar through clenched teeth.

Harry regarded him for a moment, then nodded slowly: “Alright.”

“Alchemy is a very misunderstood branch of magic,” sighed Dumbledore, suddenly seeming more comfortable with the topic. “As anything powerful and difficult to understand, it has gained over the centuries an aura of eerie mystique, which, as is typical among humans, is interpreted at once with awed admiration and bitter terror.”

His soft declaration was met with various grimaces.

“I myself have faced prejudice in both senses for being an Alchemist and though I do not lie about it, of course, I have learned not to advertise the fact too much. For it is impossible to negate that alchemic practices can turn to horrifying results... and that, I suppose, is the crux of the matter...”

“Is it?” asked Harry dubiously, because frankly, he wasn’t altogether sure of what they were talking about.

“There are those who say that Alchemy corrupts the soul,” said the Headmaster solemnly.

Itachi, practical as usual, stepped in to bring the discussion back to the topic they needed to address: “As fascinating as this all is, we aren’t here to discuss the pros and cons of Alchemy, but gain insight on the unexpected enemies you apparently didn’t see fit to warn us about.”

“Quite right,” nodded Harry, shaking himself out of the swirling ponderings about Alchemy, Good and Evil, Life, the Universe and Everything, and pinning the aged wizard with a pointed look.

“Ah, my boy...” started Dumbledore.

All three Guardians bristled at once.

“He isn’t yours,” hissed Itachi with a ferocity that started the Headmaster.

“And he’s much more than a mere boy,” added Scar disdainfully.

“Yeah, so can the condescension, wizard!” was Seifer’s less-than-polite contribution.

The old man looked taken aback, but raised a hand placatingly: “My deepest apologies – to all of you, and to the Lord Summoner,” he said quietly. “It is an old teacher’s habit to see any youth as a student, that’s all; I meant no offence.”

“None taken,” assured Harry, his smile tight but his tone gentle, to quiet his bristling Guardians.

“Your teachers know who is behind the attack. They were horrified that it happened, but not surprised,” insisted Itachi levelly.

“Horrified, yes. That is the right word,” sighed Dumbledore. “To attack a Summoner...” He shook his head in pained disbelief. “But no, we weren’t surprised, not entirely. Voldemort has done worse and I would put nothing past him. Nevertheless, that his followers could stoop so low, renouncing their honour and spitting on the very traditions they claim to want to protect...”

“...Voldemort?” asked Itachi sharply.

Dumbledore smiled sadly: “It warms my heart to hear his name pronounced so cavalierly. People have been so terrified of him that they do not dare utter it and choose instead to say ‘You-Know-Who’ or ‘He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’.”

“You’re joking,” blurted out Harry.

“I wish I were. I try my best to break them of the silly habit; after all, fear of the name only increases fear of the thing itself. Alas! My efforts are generally in vain.”

Harry shook his head, incredulous.

“Well, it’s not like his name’s anything to go proud of,” commented Seifer with a smirk. “Voldemort. Honestly! I’d come up with a pseudonym real fast if I were him.”

“Voldemort is a pseudonym. His real name is Tom Riddle.”

There was a brief pause. Then Seifer asked, incredulous: “He had a perfectly cool name like ‘Riddle’ and went and chose that pathetic ‘Voldemort’ instead? The bloke has issues, I tell you!” He shook his head mock-sadly.

Dumbledore’s eyes were twinkling madly again. “Indeed, indeed.”

“So who is this Tom Riddle? And why has he attacked my Lord Summoner?” asked Itachi, determined to get some answers.

“He hasn’t, not in person.”

“His followers have,” retorted the Guardian swiftly.

“Yes.” Dumbledore sighed deeply, almost crumbling a little on himself. “Perhaps it would help you to understand my position, if I were to explain the recent history of our land.”

No-one replied, but their pinned gazes showed their interest well enough.

The Headmaster leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled in front of his chin; briefly but unhurriedly, he sketched a picture of the war his world was embroiled in.

“Voldemort, or if you prefer, Tom Riddle, was a student here years ago; an excellent student, on the surface: intelligent, polite, a Prefect. Extraordinarily gifted, too. I fear his disposition was nowhere as good as his appearance, however. Alas, I always suspected... but there was no proof, not even any real indication, only my instinctual misgivings.”

He shook his head sadly. “After he graduated, he disappeared, and in circumstances fraught with scandal. Many were shocked: the charming Head Boy, who had shown such promise...”

Dumbledore sighed. “What he did in the intervening years, I shudder to think. Almost no-one recognized him when he returned, grown in power and in ruthlessness, styling himself a ‘Dark Lord’.”

The aged wizard's voice had grown dry and almost mocking.

“He had followers, too – at first, he maintained the semblance of calling them friends; but he soon shed the pretence. He has no friends. His 'Death Eaters', as they call themselves, are servants and minions, nothing more: wizards and witches dedicated to doing his bidding, who delight in bringing terror to both muggle and magical innocents.”

“Sounds like a right cad,” said Seifer carelessly. He had perched himself on the corner of the Headmaster's desk, long legs stretched out before him, balancing Hyperion on its point and twirling it a bit; now and then he glanced over his shoulder at the narrator affecting nonchalance, but his eyes were piercing.

Dumbledore regarded him steadily, a saddened look in his blue eyes.

After a moment, he continued: “Perhaps the most terrible thing is that this war we're facing is the _second_ major conflict Voldemort causes in less than half a century. The first, which I was about to describe, started in 1970 and lasted for over a decade: eleven years of what amounted to a secret civil war.”

He moved his eyes from Seifer's form to the unnaturally still Itachi, but his gaze was misted with memories.

“You cannot imagine. Terror everywhere… panic… confusion… that's how it used to be, in those days. Spells that hadn't been heard of in decades, horrible magic, vile magic, dragged into the open again.The uncertainty of not knowing who supported whom; the fear of your loved ones being controlled, unable to stop themselves from committing horrible crimes... Voldemort’s rise to power was rapid but stealthy, marked with rumours, and then news, of deaths, disappearances, tortures; the Ministry was in disarray, any potential for resolute action stunted by the threat of exposure to the non-magicals,” went on Dumbledore.

He was a good teacher, Harry could tell. His words were clear but thorough, precise but engaging.

“It was a horrid time, indeed. And then--” The wizard paused, dramatically, for a long instant. “And then, it ended abruptly. Overnight, on Halloween 1981.”

“How?” breathed Harry.

The unnerving blue eyes focused on his green ones. For a very long moment, Dumbledore seemed to be contemplating something of critical importance and perhaps, evaluating Harry. Whatever conclusion about the Summoner he came to, however, were not disclosed.

“Love,” said the aged wizard gravely. “A mother's love – and a mother's sacrifice. The truest and most powerful of ancient magic.” He smiled sadly. “Her name was Lily Potter; the brightest light of her generation. She offered her life, selflessly, out of love for her only child: and her sacrifice created an invincible protection for the baby, so that when Voldemort attempted to kill him, the lethal curse rebounded on him instead.”

All four listeners stared, wide-eyed with wonder.

The old wizard went on in a lighter tone: “Thus was Voldemort defeated once. Oh! You may imagine the jubilation. For eleven years we'd had very little to celebrate... There were parties out in the streets, flocks of owls racing back and forth with merry messages – my old friend Dedalus even engineered a spectacle of shooting stars over Kent,” Dumbledore had a fond smile as he reminisced. “Some were uneasy that we might come to the attention of the muggles through the exuberance of the festivities, after managing to maintain secrecy through a war... but most were too relieved and happy to worry.”

Seifer and Scar fidgeted with barely contained restlessness. As nice as the story was, it wasn't giving them the kind of information they needed and wanted. Itachi let nothing show, of course, but to Harry, his very stillness indicated that he was in ready-to-battle mode.

Apparently oblivious to the preoccupation of his listeners, the aged wizard went on: “Alas! It was not enough. As the saying goes, true war doesn't end when you kill off the leader. The source of conflict Voldemort had exploited during his rise to power rooted itself in the regrettable bigotry and inequality of our society and none of that disappeared with him. It was only a matter of time before he returned... Before the war started anew.”

Dumbledore leaned back, suddenly looking even older and incredibly weary: “And now it has.”

Harry contemplated him. A good teacher indeed – and a good storyteller. What the Summoner could not tell, was how truthful the wizard was being. The tale was fascinating, but how much of it was real?

He could not bring himself to distrust the man, yet he couldn't bring himself to trust him either. Even in the little time he'd spent at Hogwarts, it was plain to see, for him, that the Headmaster cared deeply for the children in his care, both those still in school and those who had already graduated; but on the other hand, he'd noticed the man wielded secrets and half-truths with the craftiness of a Master Illusionist. Harry had the unnerving feeling that every word the aged Headmaster used was another veil wrapped around the truth: that instead of revealing, it helped to hide. And yet... was it also protecting?

Harry's lips firmed.

He did not know what to make of Albus Dumbledore, and he did not like it.

“I don’t understand,” frowned Scar. “If the situation is as dire as you say, why is school still in session?” His dark countenance was a reflection of his inner demons, brought forth once more by the tales of war.

“Ah! For some reason, Hogwarts is well protected. _Very_ well protected. Indeed! More than I had thought, even.” Dumbledore looked genuinely delighted. “Nothing that wishes harm to the students can cross the boundaries of our grounds – there have been gruesome examples of attempts in the last few years. That’s why you were attacked in the Forest, they could not have done it here.”

“The school's protections are that strong?” asked Itachi with a very slight frown. Harry knew him well enough to detect a hint of surprise in his tone.

Interested, the Summoner leaned in: “What are they? Wards?”

“I do not know,” Dumbledore said serenely. His blue eyes were twinkling madly. “I would never claim to know all the school's secrets.”

Seifer muttered something uncomplimentary about moronic old geezers and Headmasters in general.

Practical as ever, Scar threw out a few quick questions – were there other places so well protected? Was the local government able to fight back? Who all was opposing this Voldemort character? If there was an open war going on, why hadn't they been warned _before_ the Summoner's arrival? - scowling at the haphazard answers he got.

Apparently, open war wasn't truly an option for the wizarding world, the risk of exposure being too high – though Dumbledore reluctantly admitted that Voldemort seemed less concerned with secrecy than he should be and less inclined to limit himself to terrorist tactics. A few rather spectacular attacks on the 'Muggles', those outside the wizarding world, had considerably increased the panic in the Ministry and the population.

Very few dared to oppose him during the first war and even less now; Dumbledore talked proudly about the resistance group he himself founded and led, the Order of the Phoenix, but he allowed that not many had survived the first conflict and moreover, fourteen years of peace had lulled most into complacence. They were doing their best to keep track of Voldemort's actions and intentions, but it wasn't much.

Harry shook his head, on the whole unimpressed. “This is all very interesting I'm sure, but also irrelevant to us.”

His Guardians backed off at once, politely letting him take the lead. Dumbledore, for his part, looked completely taken aback.

“Surely you must wish to understand the situation?” he asked courteously, but with a hint of impatience.

“As I said, it is certainly interesting,” replied Harry diplomatically, “but it has little to do with us. We are unlikely to be further involved.”

“So we're not staying, then? Good,” commented Seifer rather carelessly and Scar crossed his arms, relaxing slightly.

The Headmaster gaped.

“It is not my intention to discount your efforts on behalf of your people,” Harry added quickly, refusing to wince at the very Lulu-like voice in his head, that was pointedly reminding him of good manners and acceptable handling of political encounters. “I realize you're suffering and feel for you,” he said by rote.

The wizard's slightly shocked expression brightened up. “Indeed. I thank thee, Lord Summoner. But at last we have a new hope!” he countered, suddenly joyful. He looked at Harry with pride and warmth, as if he was a grandson who'd come home after years abroad and having graduated with honours to boot. “Your arrival here... it is the answer to all of my prayers!”

Feeling the faintest dread and resentment already pooling in his belly, Harry gazed back with as neutral an expression as he could manage. It sounded very much like the wizard wished – maybe even expected – him to take part in the conflict.

It was not unprecedented of course. Having the backing of a Summoner was often a coveted goal for politicians and leaders and he'd heard much griping on the topic from Yuna. That did not mean it was welcome.

Harry considered his next words carefully, trying to formulate his question in such a way as to bring the least offence. “I do not wish to belittle the sufferings that this war is bringing to you and your people,” he said carefully. “They are undoubtedly great. However, I fail to see why this conflict should involve me.”

Dumbledore regarded him with an unnerving, knowing look.

“You truly expect me to took an active role in this war?” asked Harry, dumbfounded by the gall of the man.

Itachi's eyes narrowed and Seifer tensed. Scar moved slightly at Harry's side, restless; they did not interrupt, however.

“I’m well aware that Summoners don’t normally interfere in the dealings of common wizards,” allowed Dumbledore. “Normal magic has never been within your purview so much as wild magic and natural disasters, I know. However I believe that in this circumstances, an exception shall be made. You will lead us into a new era of peace!”

“I shall not,” snapped Harry in clipped tones.

“I am confident you will,” said the old wizard with infuriating serenity. “You see, it is not a matter of you being a Summoner, though that is an amazing bonus, of course.”

“A _bonus?_ ”

“It is about you being _you_.”

All four of them looked at Dumbledore uncomprehendingly. Undaunted, the wizard stared placidly back.

“What do you mean?” asked Harry sharply. “I am... me,” he said lamely. If it wasn't his Summoner powers the man was after, than what?

After a tense pause, Dumbledore answered, in carefully measured tones: “Because, my Lord Summoner, Lily Potter was your mother.”

Harry could only stare in utter shock.

The silence was such that the soft whirring noises of a few trinkets sounded loud, as did the distant voices of children somewhere outside.

“You can't know that,” Harry whispered warily.

But once again, Itachi had caught on sooner than anyone, his genius mind making connections where no-one else did. “There were many surprised reactions to my Lord Summoner’s looks, on the first night,” he said coldly. “You recognized him then.”

Dumbledore smiled rather smugly: “Summoner Harry is very much the image of James Potter, his father, but he has his mother's, Lily’s, eyes,” he explained, his eyes twinkling merrily. “Many of us have been their teachers or classmates; his appearance was hardly going to pass unnoticed.”

Itachi and Scar exchanged a glance of grim triumph. They'd been right – those reactions were a sign of trouble.

Harry's mind was in complete turmoil.

Was this really his birth world? Was it possible? There was no such thing as magic _back there,_ the Dursleys had made it clear. But the wizarding world was hidden, so maybe they just didn't know. Or did they? His Aunt Petunia must have known about her sister... had she lied? To what purpose? But how could his parents have been magical? How could they have been murdered in a war – weren't they killed in a car-crash? Surely none of this was possible. And yet... Harry's own affinity for magic – could it come from them? From here?

Were these wizards really his people? Would he find... family, here? His family...

But no; he shook himself slightly. His family were O'aka, and Clasko, and Sky Runner; Yuna and Rikku and Paine, and Lulu and Brother and Buddy and Wakka and little Vidina; and of course, Itachi and Scar and Seifer.

That was his family.

Feeling the relief of someone who's finding his balance after a moment of vertigo, he breathed deeply.

This Lily... this woman who was a hero, or a saint, or both, was just a stranger. It was nice to think of his mother being this special, but it made no real difference. He would honour her memory, gladly, but could not feel any obligation to her people.

This wasn't his world.

Still, he had to ask, he had to be sure. “What if you're wrong?”

“I confess I wasn't sure at first; it seemed impossible. I thought it a coincidence, a chance event, a fortuity. I did not let myself hope. But being in company with you, my Lord Summoner, is strengthening my conviction. You have a lot in common with her – and with James Potter too, really.”

“It might be a coincidence--”

“Ah, but then there's your scar.” Dumbledore smiled slightly: “The only mark left on Lily's son was a peculiar scar - a wound by the curse meant to take his life, in the form of a lightning bolt.”

He nodded slightly to Harry's forehead, where the orange goggles he used to hold his shaggy hair back left a jagged, zigzagging scar visible.

With growing animation, he said entreatingly: “Have you never wondered what might have caused that unusual scar? It is not an ordinary cut. It is the mark left by powerful, evil magic. Magic that had killed dozens, hundreds, but that did not work on you.”

Half-unconsciously, Harry raised a hand to rub his almost-forgotten scar. Truth be told, he hadn't given it much thought since he was a child.

“That is what makes you special, Harry – what would make you special even were you not a fabled Summoner – that is what makes you famous.”

“Famous?” he squeaked. Then he gulped, forcing himself to gather his composure again. Fame wasn't something entirely good in his book, but it wasn't entirely bad either; more importantly, it was something he had experience with. He could deal with being famous for more than his connection to the Aeons, he supposed.

Still, his fame as a Summoner was based on some actual skill on his part. Not like this!

“Famous for something I might have done as a toddler?” he protested incredulously. “Before even walking or talking? That's ridiculous. I don't remember what I did – if I did anything at all. I was a baby then! And in any case... it's been years. Why would anyone still remember me?”

Dumbledore's smile was gentle and his eyes twinkling merrily, but it only made Harry scowl more. “You must understand: Voldemort's destruction was a historic moment. You're regarded as a war hero.”

A few hisses and grumbles followed that declaration, making Dumbledore blink uncertainly at the obviously unhappy Guardians.

“Why?” asked Scar with unusual bluntness. “Shouldn't _his mother_ be the hero here?”

“Perhaps, but it is to her child that people look,” replied Dumbledore dismissively. He turned to the Summoner, his voice growing warmer: “There are books written about you, Harry; every child in our world knows your name. That lightning-shaped cut on your forehead is a symbol of hope. It is the visible sign that you and Voldemort are linked, because instead of killing you, his curse rebounded on him. A mark that inflames the fantasy of all of us.”

“You said it was the mother's sacrifice that did it,” pointed out Seifer with little patience.

“It was. But that is not a well-known fact – the people believe that Harry did it. That something in that little child stopped the most evil Dark Lord of recent history. They call you the Boy-Who-Lived.”

“Why? Someone must have told them this version instead of the truth – _why_?” insisted the blond.

No answer came from the Headmaster, but Itachi didn't need it.

“Propaganda,” he explained with apparent indifference. “The power of a controllable symbol.” He pierced Dumbledore with his gaze: “You needed a figurehead, a hero, someone to pin all of it onto, that would inspire hope in the people. Someone to whom everybody could point as the cause of their freedom, and by extension, upon whom they could rely, to bring about that freedom again if necessary. It matters not if it's true or not, you encouraged the myth for purposes of control and power. A martyr would not have been as effective. Dead people cannot be called upon to save the masses again. The child's young age and implied innocence enhanced the perception of a miracle and at the same time, gave hope of a repeat performance, should it ever be needed. Clever.”

The aged wizard did not seem happy at the frank assessment, but did not dispute it. His eyes grew colder and his attitude less genial than earlier, however.

Harry's mind was churning and so befuddled that a headache was forming behind his forehead. None of this made sense. They'd only wanted to know why they'd been attacked, how had they ended up on this roller-coaster of unexpected revelations? It didn’t help that his Guardians were all staring unnervingly at the wizard, faces too rigidly neutral. He closed his eyes to try and keep a grip on his emotions.

A pregnant silence took root, before Dumbledore leaned back and returned to a more measured tone. “I did what was best, in the interest of all. The aftermath of the first war could have crippled our world terribly. A beacon of Hope and Light was necessary to give the people the will and strength to rebuild their lives quickly. Harry's mere existence healed our world more than anything else could have!”

He focused his gaze on Harry again: “In light of this, you might imagine how devastating it was, to discover that little Harry Potter had disappeared from his family's home; and how much hope your reappearance – and as a Summoner, too! – is bringing us.”

The Summoner scowled. “I did not disappear from my 'home',” he said icily. “I had no home there. And certainly no family.”

Dumbledore frowned worriedly.

“Even so,” interjected Itachi coolly, derailing the wizard's probable protest, “you cannot expect my Lord Summoner to step in the role you tried to build for him. Too much has changed: his path has led him far away from your world. To hope he would fulfil your expectations is foolish.”

“We need him,” retorted Dumbledore with conviction. He rounded on Harry: “Would you truly deny us when we need you so much? Voldemort is on the move and Darkness spreads wherever he treads.”

He rubbed his steepled fingers on the tip of his long nose. “What worries me the most is that he seems to be much more powerful and better organized than he used to be. That night, when your mother's love stopped him, he lost almost all of his powers as well as his body, and fled, horribly weakened. Where to, I know not. I do know, however, that he returned more powerful and more terrible than ever – looking younger and even more handsome than he used to, just as I always feared he would. Moreover, he returned with even greater ambition than he used to have: something I did not think possible.”

He couldn't contain a shudder: “His eventual goal of conquering the entire wizarding world seems to have expanded to possibly include the muggle world along with it. A foolish ambition, of course, but nonetheless dangerous to all of us. As if that weren't enough, there are worrisome rumours of allies no-one has ever seen, lending him powerful and mysterious knowledge, not to mention the whispered possibility that he has become an Alchemist, of all things!”

His voice rose with feeling. “We've seen troops that must be of foreign origin, making me wonder just how far and wide his influence spreads. The Ministry is a step away from being toppled, his campaign across both the wizarding and muggle communities is growing ever more violent. We desperately need just what you can give us – what Harry Potter can give us. We _need_ you.”

For a long moment, Harry said nothing. Too much was roiling in his mind to put it into words and he wasn't sure he should disclose any of it to this man, in any case. He did not lower his eyes, however, and held onto Dumbledore's solemn, steely gaze instead.

When he felt he had enough control over his voice not to start shouting, he pointed out icily: “It is not my place to get involved with your war.”

Passionately, the old wizard insisted: “You cannot ignore this, Harry! Don't you see? This is your destiny.”

Harry slashed a hand in a dismissive motion. He was a Summoner. His destiny was not in the hands of these wizards.

The Headmaster went on fervently: “Our entire world relies upon you! You are marked; singled out because your mother died to save you. And that gives you a unique advantage over Voldemort, because if there is one thing Voldemort cannot understand, it is love. He cannot realize that love as powerful as your mother's for you leaves its own mark, its own protection. A protection you will have forever, for it is in your very skin. We need you, the hope you symbolize and the strength you can give the Light side!”

Harry closed his eyes, pained. Lulu’s words echoed in his mind: _There will be those who would use your power and status to their advantage..._ Well, here was a prime example, was it not?

“Regardless.” Harry stood up, determined to put a stop to the meeting and the unreasonable expectations it seemed to have kindled. “I have no obligation to you.”

“But you must help! It has been Prophesised,” blurted out Dumbledore.

This time all four showed their dumbfounded incredulity openly.

Harry sat back heavily. “Excuse me?” he asked in disbelief.

“There was... a Prophecy,” the Headmaster declared with obvious reluctance. Once again, Harry could hear the capital letter in the word. “Which named you as 'the One' capable of bringing an end to Voldemort's power.”

“Prophecy?” guffawed Seifer. “Are you serious?”

“It is a very serious matter,” rebuked Dumbledore.

Harry rubbed his temples, feeling his headache bloom. “Alright. What does it say?”

“It states you will be the One to vanquish--”

“The actual wording, please.”

Dumbledore blinked.

“Surely, if you place so much importance on this Prophecy, you know its wording?” asked Harry, without bothering to temper his sarcasm.

“I know what it says, yes, and it gives me reason to believe that you are--”

“Either you tell me the actual Prophecy, or I'm leaving,” interrupted Harry, irritation growing inside him. “You're attempting to trap me in a _war_. The least you owe me is the truth!”

“The truth." Dumbledore sighed. "It is a beautiful and terrible thing, and should therefore be treated with great caution.”

Harry levelled him with a flat glare.

Discomfited, Dumbledore fidgeted in his seat, caught himself, cleared his throat a couple times and finally gave a resigned sigh: “ _The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hands of the other, for neither can live if the other survives. The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches...”  
_

A momentary pause followed by the renewal of his entreaties: “You see? You understand now? By attempting to kill you, Voldemort himself singled you out – marked you – and set you on the path that would bring about his own destruction, at your hands! You are clearly the Chosen One. The power of a Summoner... there is no doubt that Voldemort would not know it...”

The four let him go on; lost in thought, they were slowly digesting the information.

“Is Voldemort even aware of this Prophecy? Does he believe in it?” asked Itachi calmly.

“Part of it and very much so.”

“Does he connect it with my Lord Summoner, as you do?”

“It is the reason he attacked the Potters in the first place,” said Dumbledore with assurance. “There were two possible boys who could have fit the criteria, but he chose Harry Potter, who, like him--”

“That does not necessarily explain why he would wish my Lord Summoner harm,” interrupted Itachi nattily. “Does he have any reason to connect this prophecy with my Lord Summoner? He might not be aware of your suspicions about his identity.”

“Oh, I imagine he has been informed straight away of who Harry truly is,” replied the old wizard, shaking his head. “There are spies both in Hogwarts and with the Ministry that would have recognized him.”

For a long moment, the group of four could do nothing but gape at the aged wizard.

“Well, that’s just brilliant,” muttered Harry at last, with a scowl.

So he was to be dragged into a battle to the death regardless of his wishes, or even choices. Because of a Prophecy, of all ridiculous things, that this Voldemort character evidently took as seriously as the aged wizard before him.

It was at least decent of Dumbledore to be offering him the option of walking into it with his head held high; Voldemort, as the battle in the Forest had proven, would not extend him this courtesy.

He was nevertheless furious and disgusted with the old wizard. He'd obviously built a neat little play for him to perform in, and, if he understood the situation correctly, actually expected him to play the part selected for him, to the Headmaster's specifications.

Destiny indeed! Where was his free choice in this fanciful tale, pray?

And the gall to bring up his parents so cavalierly – and the Dursleys on top of that!

He was rather thrown by all the unexpected revelations, but a deep seated rage was building within him, slowly but surely.

He had done his best to forget everything that came before the Magic that brought him to the Macalania Woods, but he hadn’t been entirely successful: the details were hazy, now, but the memories of pain and loneliness were still with him. If he was this very important person, why had been left in that horrible situation?

He wasn't going to ask though – for one, he did not expect a truthful answer and for two... well, that wasn't really the point, was it? The point was that he did not want to take part in a war.

A Summoner was supposed to help, that was true. What was it that Yuna used to say? _To refuse a call for help without a very good reason is wrong._

The problem was that he had a very good reason. For how would a war help? A Summoner should work for the good of the people. How was war good? He'd seen and heard enough of it to know any appeasing ideas of 'right' did not make it better. Even a holy war is a war. And a world torn apart for a rightful cause is still a war-torn world.

He made to reply but then looked down at his hands and slowly, his expression turned from troubled to thoughtful.

He did not have to make a choice at once; he could take the time to think things over. 

But he did have to make a choice and that was an extremely important realization. Ultimately, it was up to him to decide what to do.

He nodded to himself, because something deep inside him felt settled, in spite of the uncertainty he felt swamped by. The very reverence in which he was held thanks to his power made it all the more important that he not misuse it: his influence could change lives for the better, but also for the worse. It was not unreasonable to feel apprehensive. But he was not _helpless_.

He refocused on the wizard.

“What would you have us do?” he asked in the most controlled tone he could manage.

The Headmaster smiled in relief but then visibly hesitated, probably rethinking his planned strategies in light of Harry's clear reluctance. Finally, he said, somewhat cautiously: “These are dangerous times. Voldemort is gaining more support through the inaction of those who are succumbing to fear than through any actual recruiting. It would give everyone a boost to think that the Lord Summoner is willing to fight for them. If you could show yourself publicly on the side of Light...”

Harry pursed his lips in annoyance.

Ok, that... was pretty much part and parcel of being a Summoner. In times of troubles, everybody on Spira looked to them; Harry had learned early on to always show himself strong and confident, to always smile in the face of anything, to be the one who would provide hope. Nevertheless...

“If I do so, won't it look like I approve of what you, specifically, are doing? When I don't even know much of what it is?”

“I would be happy to include you in the war effort.”

“No. I will not be part of your 'war effort',” scowled Harry. “It goes against everything I believe in.”

“I understand,” soothed Dumbledore, though Harry doubted it was true. “Still, by making a stand, even just in a support role, you could easily change the tides of the war. You may be able to convince everyone you're winning the war against Voldemort, and that may well be enough to bring everyone to the fight.”

Oh, hell no.

Did the man even realize what he was asking? He was basically trying to get Harry to send people to their deaths!

“Absolutely not.”

The wizard looked taken aback. “Surely you realize that...”

“First of all, _I_ am not winning any war. I'm not _part_ of any war; how much more clearly must I say this? And second, what you're asking for is despicable.”

Dumbledore's eyes hardened: “I would not expect you to understand. You are sixteen years old-”

“I am old enough to realize that I would be sending people to their death and what's worse, for a cause I don't believe in.”

The wizard winced as if under a blow, but rallied: “As things stand, the war is going badly – if you do nothing, you'll be sending people to their death anyway!”

Harry gasped and his Guardians reacted, taking a threatening step forward; Itachi snapped out a clipped “That's enough!” and Dumbledore regained his composure with an only slightly apologetic air.

“You could be a source of strength for our world,” he pleaded. “War is upon us, there is no avoiding it. Will you not lead the way through its horror to the best future? Your mere presence is giving us reason to rejoice and if you would just take on a leading role...”

Harry almost visibly recoiled.

This wizard's request was beyond unreasonable. He was disturbingly reminded of Yuna's tale about being asked to marry Master Seymour Guado, not for love, but to give the people of Spira reason to celebrate – she'd talked to him at length about the pressure of being 'a beacon of strength', what path she'd almost walked and how much she regretted the mistake she'd made. He did not intend to be guilt-tripped into anything like that.

“No,” he said firmly. “I cannot be a leader here. I do not belong in this world.”

For the first time, Dumbledore appeared almost dangerous. His aura of geniality and gentle wisdom had almost disappeared, leaving a harsh flare of power and determination in its wake.

“This is your world,” he declared, his steely tone brooking no contradiction.

Harry almost preferred it. It was honest and it was clear: and it was also admirable, because even in the anger of the aura he could sense a fierce desire to protect and assist. Dumbledore was not a destroyer, but a defender and a carer.

In reaction, Harry felt oddly stronger, more settled. His churning thoughts were settling, a few harsh, yet comforting, truth shining in his mind.

“It is not.”

“You were born here,” pointed out Dumbledore.

“Perhaps. But I was not raised here. My family is elsewhere and I have no feelings of connection or nostalgia for a place that reminds me only of pain and misery. This is not my world, and most importantly, this is not my war.”

Harry almost closed his eyes as his words resonated within him. He felt marginally calmer and in control again.

Dumbledore sagged. He was obviously disappointed, his blue eyes troubled and betrayed.

“What of the homunculi?” he asked with bitter quietness.

“What of them?”

“There are rumours that Voldemort, too, is an Alchemist. You've seen one of his creations for yourself.”

Before Harry could retort, Scar coughed lightly. Softly, almost reluctantly but not quite, he pointed out: “Homunculi are _vile_. They must be destroyed.”

“So what? Someone else can do it,” spat Harry and immediately cringed at his own reaction. It was petty and childish and even he had to admit it. Not at all worthy of a mature Summoner in charge of his life...

A brief, pregnant silence followed. “It is almost impossible to do so,” said Scar calmly.

Dumbledore nodded in agreement: “The only way to kill a homunculus is by expending all of the power that was granted to them, leaving them unable to revive themselves once they have been killed... and that is virtually impossible to do.”

“...But we did do it,” acknowledged Harry glumly. “It took us more than we expected, but we managed.”

Nobody said anything, but their silence spoke clearly to Harry anyway.

“If you can show us where they are, we shall evaluate the threat they pose and--” started Harry, a little unhappily. He wasn't sure how to finish his offer.

“I only know of three, and one you already destroyed. The others stay at the Death Eaters’ headquarters...” said Dumbledore quickly.

“Convenient,” muttered Harry, but then he sighed. It wasn't the wizard's fault.

Moreover... the twisting of Magic through Alchemy might, actually, come under the purview of a Summoner.

He was tempted to just say no to anything Dumbledore asked of him, but it would be unjust and petty. A part of him wanted to stand up and shout: “Why should we take care of this? It’s your problem. So what if a Summoner’s the only one who can fight at that level of power? Train your wizards better! Or find a different solution, destruction isn’t the only option to vanquish an enemy.”

But he couldn't. He wasn't sure that it was his duty to handle the Homunculi but... he wasn't sure it was not, either.

They felt _wrong_. So unnatural as to disturb the very fabric of the world. To the point that destroying the one they met had given him a grim satisfaction – a most unusual reaction to killing, for him.

Ignorant of his churning thoughts, Dumbledore attempted a different approach: “How long were you planning to stay at Hogwarts, my Lord Summoner? Where will you go from now?”

“I... I don’t know,” admitted Harry quietly. He did not like to acknowledge it aloud, but he would not lie about this. “I feel no clear draw at the moment.”

Dumbledore had a flash of triumph which none of them liked in his eyes, but when he spoke to them, it was as humbly as it was entreatingly: “Let me at least offer you my hospitality a little longer, then. I am not asking more than you are willing to give...”

Harry felt uneasiness rise in him again and fought the urge to jump up and pace. “Yes you are,” he muttered sullenly.

“...but do consider that I can help. Please, I am an ally.”

Harry stood up abruptly. He'd had enough for one day. His mind was turning over and over every bit of unexpected information he'd been given and he needed time to process it all. He couldn't take anymore right then.

“I will think on this,” he said, the edge in his voice so clear that even the Headmaster immediately backed down.

The wizard could not prevent himself from showing a hint of smugness, however: “I am certain you will come to see things from my point of view.”

Harry's eyes narrowed: “I doubt it. Regardless of what my role might turn out to be, this is not my war. This is not my world!”

And on that note, he rushed out, his limit reached and passed already.

He marched back to his rooms in a much fouler mood than when he'd left them.

Once inside, he ignored the refreshments that had been brought for them and pretty much any other distraction, continuing to pace back and forth in irritation.

Harry's mind was inexorably going to places he usually did his best to shy away from. Revelations he didn't want to face were shoved at him by his own brain. Some of the things he'd found out were too painful to face head on, but there were others that he had simply avoided thinking of for the sake of his peace of mind, that he could no longer ignore.

His patient Guardians simply sat around, looking after their weapons or leafing through a book while they waited for him to be ready to speak.

He knew he should be able to, in the privacy of their assigned room, yet he kept pacing furiously back and forth, too worried and anxious to settle, his thoughts running in circles, until it all became too much to keep inside and it spilled in an out-of-control speech.

Voldemort, his mother, his childhood, his confusing impression of Dumbledore, his doubts about the Homunculi, his insecurities about his own role, all of it tumbled out in a jumble of words that slowly shifted towards a rant about his inability to judge the Headmaster's trustworthiness.

“...And he is not telling us everything,” he burst out eventually, “I am sure of it!”

“Of course not,” agreed Itachi calmly, abruptly making him halt his ranting and pacing. “He openly admitted he has been awaiting this war for years and he does not strike me as a fool. He must have strategies upon strategies in place and contingency plans layered ten levels deep.”

“Yeah, and the whole time, he said not a word about any of them. Hyne, Harry! That man keeps his cards so close to his chest they might as well be sewn into his ridiculous robes!” said Seifer, drawing a smile from the Summoner.

“It is not surprising he is keeping things from us,” commented Scar. “We have not been particularly open to his overtures and he has not had much time, or reason, to come to trust us.”

Harry stopped his pacing in front of a window, looking out. “We have kept some secrets too,” he said quietly.

“Well, we have a right to!” blustered Seifer.

The Summoner nodded in agreement, but there was an undercurrent of uncertainty in him.

“To what, precisely, are you referring, Harry?” asked Scar, looking as if he already knew the answer.

A brief hesitation. “My nightmares,” he whispered.

“I thought as much. We’ve found the root cause, then? Is this what you think?” Scar kept his voice neutral and pleasant.

Harry shook his head. “Might be. Probably. I don’t know. I just don’t know!” His tone rose with his distress and he turned around with a jarring spin that made a few of his sewn on trinkets jingle.

Almost against his will, his hand went up to rub his odd scar again.

Could this be it? Could the odd-looking but unassuming mark be the explanation for the one dark spot of his fantastic life?

He had done his best not to worry too much about his nightmares over the years, but they kept happening, always giving him the same cold and slimy feeling of wrongness even if the content mutated, always giving him the suspicion that they might not be simple nightmares after all.

He knew that his Guardians, despite having grown used to it, were still disturbed by the way he woke up at times, screaming, pale and clammy. It didn't happen too often, thankfully; but enough to be a concern.

They had discussed it ad nauseam at first, but as they kept going in circles, they'd gradually let it slide, accepting the situation because they could do nothing to fix it.

He thought back to the progression his nightmares had followed: he'd had them since a very young age, but they had grown in strength as he grew in age and power.

The one constant was the overwhelming green light, and the accompanying high-pitched laugh, that always concluded the dreams.

Everything else changed; Harry had seen various landscapes from an odd perspective, as if he was gliding through rocks or sliding across cold soils on his belly: those nights, his body felt smooth, powerful and flexible and he could see objects around him shimmering in strange, vibrant colours, even in the dark. He tasted scents on the air and plunged his fangs deeply into men's flesh, feeling ribs splinter beneath his jaws, feeling the warm gush of blood – and relishing it.

He invariably woke gagging, tangled in whatever bedding he'd been using, every inch of his body covered in icy sweat and feeling as though a white-hot poker were being applied to his forehead.

More rarely, he would catch glimpses of a huge mouth, and an impression of a voracious and uncoordinated little man, round and bald like a snowman, with small feet and thick, gorilla-like arms, and would feel desperately, overwhelmingly thirsty; but perhaps the most eerie variation of his nightmares was walking up to a mirror and seeing a strange woman looking back.

She had long, sharp nails painted black and black hair weaving without a breeze, unnaturally long and unnaturally straight, like a thick mass of rough silk threads upon which sat a gorgeous work of goldsmithing, gold threads arching in elegant curves around an oval, blue sapphire, to form a diadem decorated with delicate etchings he couldn't quite read.

Most times, he could not see her face clearly because of a strange helmet-like mask hiding her features, with sharp horns and a long pointy beak curving downwards under her chin, as red as blood; twice however he'd seen her in all her glory, as beautiful as ice, her strange makeup turning her perfect porcelain features into a cold and cruel mask, only animated by the focused insanity of her splendid eyes.

Once or twice, he'd watched her walk easily through a wall that was perfectly solid except for turning into a vertical pool of watery substance when she touched it, generating quiet ripples.

Seifer had identified her at once as Sorceress Edea and that had been the key to understand that they weren't regular nightmares, but visions. After all, he'd never had a chance to see the Sorceress, or even a picture of her, so how else could it be explained?

They had wondered over and over about the other elements of his visions – the wheres and hows and whens and most importantly, the whos – but without getting to any concrete results.

And now, the horrible suspicion was making way in his mind, that he'd been seeing things from this Voldemort's perspective; him and his allies, most likely.

His hand flew to his odd scar again. A mark of the curse linking the two of them, Dumbledore had said. Harry knew enough of magical theory from enough worlds to guess that the link was likely stronger and more complex than just a symbol.

“The source of your visions,” murmured Itachi. Fathomless eyes bore into him: “It is your scar, then.”

It was nothing they hadn't already suspected. But saying it out loud was apparently enough to make things real, because they all fell silent at once, and the air around them felt heavier than it should.

Harry resumed his pacing, worried and confused. He hated not knowing what to do. Ever since he'd become a Summoner, his Rod had been a reliable guide and his faith in the mysterious force guiding him to his Trials had only grown in time. But now everything was silence, everything was waiting his decision, his choice. He knew it was important and that he had to make it freely, but it was unsettling to be so free.

“I don't like it,” he muttered half-unconsciously.

“Do you wish us to leave at once, then?” asked Itachi calmly, startling him out of his reverie.

Harry bit his lip. He hesitated. “I... was rather hoping to visit the local market district,” he admitted sheepishly. For the first time that day he sounded like a teenager rather than a grave Lord Summoner. “I’ve heard so much about this Diagon Alley...!”

Scar and Seifer chuckled. That was soooo Harry! Summoner or not, he still loved to trade (and haggle) and looking for bargains in new, unexplored shopping venues was invariably a source of enthusiasm for him.

“Well, then. Let's use this shopping trip as a respite, to think things over before you need to decide anything,” declared Seifer.

Harry smiled.

The trip to Diagon Alley was a dream and a nightmare all rolled in one.

The place was awesome: easily as interesting as favourites of Harry's like Luka and Dollet. Unusual buildings lined it, leaning at such sharp angles that they would surely fall if not supported by magic; to the Summoner, the humblest wooden house was hardly less eye-catching than the imposing marbles of Gringotts Wizarding Bank or the dusty, inscrutable windows of Ollivander's Wand Shop.

Self-moving lettering advertised the latest best-seller published by Obscurus Books or a special monthly offer at Rosa Lee Teabag, or TerrorTours latest vacation packets.

Restaurants and diners abounded; Harry eyed longingly a very inviting ice-cream parlour whose tables, under coloured umbrellas, were spilling onto the cobbled pavement, but it looked like a very popular place even this time of year, and far too crowded for comfort.

Besides, there was too much to see to just stop, even for something as tempting as the advertised Bubble Ice-cream (with Pleasantly Warming Aftertaste!)

There were shops of every kind, large and little, bright and shadowy, selling everything from robes to telescopes and from bat spleens to quills. In between shops, on the main thoroughfare, there were a variety of street peddlers. Flowers, jewellery, charmed trinkets, pots and pans, carpets...

A few discording notes spoke of troubles not openly acknowledged.

Some windows were boarded up or broken; a number of the stalls along the street were shabby-looking and manned by shifty characters. But even so, it was magnificent.

Everywhere he turned there was something Harry wanted to trade!

He was delighted with the tottering piles of cauldrons and arrays of mystifying silver instruments in the window displays of _Wiseacre's Wizarding Equipment_. He was intrigued by the bundles of unfamiliar herbs hanging from the apothecary's roof, framing the wooden “ _Slug and Jiggers_ ” sign; fascinated by the crates of second-hand spellbooks outside Dave's Corner; amused by the colourful, self-moving toys of _Noah's Ark_.

His favourite, predictably, was the junk shop, _Utter Clutter_ , where broken wands, lopsided scales and out-of-shape sextants hid the occasional gem like a Rune Armlet or a Shadow Stone. 'Miscellaneous' was the only word to describe its products and Harry was quite keen to add to the variety through some trades!

He spent some time browsing the stacks of old issues of magazines, too – he was quite curious about some of them, especially _Transfiguration Today_ and _Challenges in Charming_ , and Seifer ended up engrossed in something titled _The Quibbler;_ the owner happily traded them a few numbers for the old issues of _Pet Pals_ Harry'd picked up in Timber.

The young Summoner would have been ecstatic... if not for the crowd that quickly gathered, apparently with no other aim but to bother him.

Unfortunately, the place was packed to begin with and as soon as they were recognized, word of the Lord Summoner's presence in the Alley spread like wildfire. People flocked by the dozens just to catch a glimpse of him and his Guardians.

Harry was rather amused to notice than a good portion of the cheering wizards were wearing orange goggles inspired by his own, either around their necks or holding their hair back. A couple women were even using them to tie their hair in a ponytail. Apparently, he'd launched a trend.

More irritating was the way his every action was greedily watched and reported and often even copied, as if he was a blitzball star or something.

He would have liked a chance to examine the elegant quills sold at Amanuensis' or try and figure out the relative merits of flying devices versus flying creatures, debating it with the chatty owner of Broomstix; but it was not to be.

The crowd was, for lack of a better word, fawning. And demanding blessings from him every other step. Thankfully his Guardians' glares kept them somewhat in check, but the exciting news of his presence in the Alley kept spreading and more and more people kept flocking to the street just to catch a glimpse of him... It was worse than the fans at the Blitzball Cup!

He tried to make the most of it anyway, calling upon his patience and relying on his Guardians to keep the worst of them at bay.

Indeed, the only break in his Guardians' perfect façade of ruthless protectors and serious bodyguards occurred when Seifer caught sight of Sugarplum's Sweets Shop. The blond's sweet tooth knew no bounds.

The result of his getting himself and all his Guardians Cauldron Cakes (which were admittedly very good), however, was that suddenly everybody wanted some: the vendor had never made better business in his entire life. Thank Merlin magic let him multiply the ingredients!

The annoyances kept growing - everybody wanted a piece of him.

He stayed well clear of the imposing building hosting the Daily Prophet's main office, but he had no illusion that his appearance would not make it into the paper, probably in an overblown light – just like every other article about him had been so far.

And most merchants wanted to give him their wares for free, which took all the fun out of it!

Although tempted to just give up, he made a point to check out Quality Quidditch Supplies anyway: the sport fascinated him, it was almost as good as Blitzball. He wondered if he could manage to try it out somehow.

It turned out to be a mistake, however, because the excitement of a 'celebrity' in an already wildly popular shop drove the crowd into a frenzy. His Guardians had to carve a path through the mass of yelling bodies through sheer intimidation and well-placed elbows; fortunately, they were professional and used to the occasional crowd of fans anyway.

Suddenly, a series of popping explosions on the other side of the street, followed by startled cries and panicked shoving, cleared an area in front of a most eye-catching shop.

_Weasely's Wizard Wheezies_ , read the psychedelic sign (most of the time: now and then it twisted in a clownish joke or a witty advertisement).

The firework display that had been let off to scatter the crowd was hardly more attention worthy than the windows, full of a colourful assortments of goods that revolved, popped, flashed, bounced and shrieked.

Harry loved it on sight.

The owners were great too!

Two identical twins in loud, garish robes, whose neon colours clashed with their red hair delightfully; they called out loudly to the 'Mighty Lord Summoner' not to worry, that that they'd closed the shop temporarily.

“So if Your Summonship wishes to have a look around our humble shop...” started one.

“...which sells the best practical jokes magic can offer! And even some non-magical ones!...” interjected the other.

“...Your Lordly Greatness can do it in peace and quiet...” continued the one on the left, unperturbed.

“Well, in peace at any rate,” threw in the second twin. “I don't know about quiet.”

“...and we will keep the rest of them out of your way,” finished the first, gesturing to the protesting crowd. Then he frowned at his brother: “Hold on. Why wouldn't there be quiet?”

“Because we don't like it,” he was reminded.

“Oh! Right. Well, quiet is boring anyway!”

Harry, having made his way to them by this time, laughed lightly. “Ok. Thanks! Will you show me around then?”

“Of course, Your Summonership!” they cried together, bending into exaggerated bows.

Obviously proud of their accomplishments, they wasted no time showing off their veritable cornucopia of jokes, tricks and toys - Pygmy Puffs and Extendable Ears, Wonderous Wands and Nose-biting Teacups, Whizz Bangs and Rubby Chickens.

Harry quickly found kindred spirits in them and soon they were haggling cheerfully over Moody Quills (which wrote down how the user was feeling rather than what they wanted to write) and Dreary Whiskers (which grew instant moustaches when ingested), Decoy Detonators (which run away blaring noises if dropped) and Punching Telescopes (which made Harry thank his good reflexes).

The twins' cheerfulness was contagious. Seifer, too, was enthusiastic about their products and more than happy to chat and trade good-natured barbs, while Itachi and Scar took on the role of silent watchers, guaranteeing Harry's safety.

At one point, while one of the twins kept showing off their best wares, the other came up to him with a small tray of tasty-looking pastries.

Rather used to people randomly offering him things, from Potions to Cards, for no other reason than his being there and being a Summoner, both on Spira and on Terra, and sometimes even in the Elemental Countries, Harry thought nothing of accepting with a polite thank you and absently bit into the creamy pastry while letting his curious eyes roam around.

Almost instantly, he felt himself swell and change; his bones feeling inexplicably lighter, most of the smells disappearing from his perception, all his hairs vanishing altogether as his skin sprouted rough, yellow feathers in uneven patches.

He barely got a cry of shock out before his mouth was twisting and elongating in a small, tough beak, strong enough to crack nuts; his usual vocal cords seemed to lose all their utility, but something at the base of his trachea started vibrating instead, producing a trilling warble in place of his intended exclamation.

His arms turning into wings and his feet becoming scaly and orange and developing very strong tendons, distracted him from how breathing felt suddenly odd and his vision had improved dramatically.

Blinking rapidly, he realized what had happened with a thrill of delight: he was a chocobo!

The twins were laughing uproariously and yelling “Canary Creams! Seven sickles the pastry!”

His Guardians were yelling too, though not in jest – weapons drawn and faces thunderous – Itachi had one of the twins by the throat while Scar loomed over the other – Seifer was roaring threats – but Harry himself found the prank totally hilarious. He'd always wondered what being a chocobo was like...

At his inquiring head-butt, Itachi released the wheezing twin, who looked only slightly apologetic; he grinned and waved his wand – pointedly ignoring the tensing Guardians – and conjured a huge mirror: Harry got a good look at himself and was thrilled.

He wasn't _quite_ a chocobo, but very similar: a giant yellow bird, whose sense of smell seemed all of a sudden focused on the bag where he kept his leftover stash of dried ghysal greens...

Harry flapped his wings enthusiastically and warbled and tweeted happily. His Guardians were clearly overreacting. This was brilliant! He wondered if he could fly? Or at least run as fast as Sky Runner could?

Unfortunately, it lasted too short a time to experiment. All too soon he was moulting, and that returned him to his normal shape. Oddly enough, his clothes and effects were completely unaffected by the transformation.

“That was awesome!” he cried happily.

He let the twins show him the pastries (while talking fast to appease his scowling Guardians, very obviously still on edge) and marvelled at them. They really looked like simple custard creams! With an impish smile, he bit into another one and warbled in delight when the transformation was complete.

Scar was less than happy with him. Even as Seifer rolled his eyes, pacified, the Ishvalan raged: chimeras were a sore spot for him.

“You're not disturbed by my Transformation Technique,” pointed out Itachi reasonably. Now that he'd assured himself of Harry's safety, he was rather indifferent to the silliness of the twin red-heads.

Scar scowled furiously: “That's something you do to yourself and _control_. This is completely different! And stop laughing you bloody menaces!”

Seifer was quickly converted, though, and happily volunteered for Donkey Danishes and Frog Fig Rolls and then, honing in with unerring instinct on the chance to annoy his fellow Guardian, he sneaked-attacked Scar (no point trying with Stoic Kid, it was an almost impossible feat, even if he'd been practising for _years)_ and managed to stick the Comb-a-Chameleon hairbrush he'd picked up into the tall man's hair before being thrown half through the shop and right into a sample basket of ever-changing Smelly Paints. Urgh.

It had been enough, however: when he picked himself up, Scarface was sporting a lovely cascade of blond-and-purple ringlets which fell to his bottom and looked positively ridiculous on a grown man.

He did not have time to collapse into laughter because Harry was already in motion and before he could react, he had been subjected to a Comb-a-Chameleon attack of his own. He twisted the mirror to evaluate the damage – a neon pink punk crest, how drab – and pursed his lips in annoyance.

The twins were simply delighted and earnestly entreated them to put on a promoting show for their shop. Despite knowing what a bad precedent this would set, Harry was almost tempted. This place was awesome!

Itachi was the only one completely unaffected, though Harry caught him eyeing the boxes of Tricky Pocky and grinning sneaked a few off the shelves, turning to the nearest twin for a spot of haggling.

He was just getting in the swing of it when a squawking bang went off, rattling the windows and making odds and ends fall from the shelves.

The happy, companionable atmosphere was shattered at once.

“Loonar Loop Luminators,” muttered one of the twins irritably. “They keep going off at random times, we can't seem to figure out why,” he explained apologetically. “These are the new and improved version... except it's not so much improved as a pain in the--”

But his brother was pointing to the boxes of LLL, which looked untouched.

Suddenly serious, the twins whipped out their wands and readied themselves for trouble, sporting steely, ready expressions at odds with their earlier clownish behaviour.

Harry and his Guardians were, of course, just as prompt in their reactions, but it was nice to see their new friends could protect themselves.

Seifer started saying something about the panicked crowd banging on the windows, but shut up abruptly when Harry let out a surprised exclamation.

“Look at that!” he whispered, eyes trained on a quivering square of thin air towards the back of the shop, through which shone the incongruous glare of a streetlight that wasn't there and wafted in the smell of wet asphalt from a street a world apart.

It was the weirdest feeling, because the square of otherness was parallel to the floor, hovering horizontally just a feet above it, but the frame they could see was a vertical take of a city sidewalk dotted with brownish, wet, fallen leaves.

They gathered around it, to peer through.

“What's that?” asked the twins in unison, completely bewildered.

“A Window,” breathed Scar. “A passage to another world.”

“We've been through some of them before,” explained Seifer. “It's--”

But he couldn't finish, because another explosion went off, louder and closer, shaking the whole shop to its foundations and throwing them all off balance; with startled cries, they were plunged head over heels into the Window, instinctively grabbing and dragging each other through.

The impact with the asphalt on the other side wasn't pleasant and it wasn't made any better by the lurching sensation of gravity asserting itself in a different direction all of a sudden.

Coughing a little and dusting himself down, Harry quickly assessed his team's well-being, absently noticing that while Scar had got rid of his girly ringlets, Seifer was still sporting a neon pink punk crest hairstyle. He managed to make it work anyway.

The twins were moaning as they picked themselves up, but the Guardians were already on their feet, alert and glaring worriedly at the ends of the street, where stern shadows were laying in wait.

Harry recognized their arrival point at once, despite having only been there once. The gloomy yet electric atmosphere of Deling City was rather distinctive.

The town was, of course, covered in clouds and lightly whipped by a fine, persistent rain. Seifer had told them, the first time they visited, that there were only ten days of clear sky in an average year; they certainly hadn’t seen even one.

Despite the dreadful weather and the even more dreadful feeling decades of military dictatorship had drawn like a heavy cape over the city, it was still impressive. Harry had been surprised at how lively it was: a cosmopolitan centre full of lights and people, of noise and business. Luxurious hotels welcomed visitors eager to admire its several celebrated architectural landmarks – the Arch first and foremost – enjoy its far-famed concerts – some of the greatest contemporary performers and pop singers having lived and loved in its dark rain and electric lights – or admire the ultra-modern infrastructure boasted by its president slash dictator, the infamous Vinzer Deling.

Pity they would have no time for touristy things, Harry mused, eying the stoic looking warriors arrayed at both ends of the street they were on, as well as in key positions over the roofs (and probably hidden somewhere he couldn't guess too).

They all had weapons trained threateningly on them: it did not bode well.


	14. A Whole Lot of Yelling

Seifer noticed at once that the combatants laying in wait for them weren't in uniform, but acted like cohesive troops anyway: “SEEDs!” he realized with surprise. Though in truth, they were so young they might be just cadets.

Someone must have sent them... but who? And why? Questions that would likely remain without answers.

“Let's cross back,” ordered Itachi tersely, but it was not to be: a tall woman with a crest of blood red hair threw a Quake their way and the slight earthquake reduced the Window to a narrow crack, to the twins' loud alarm.

Harry's eyes narrowed: how could they possibly know what to expect from the Window? Was there anyone who had control over such a natural and unpredictable phenomenon? Or was it just luck? More daunting questions they had no time for right then.

As if the woman's spell was a signal, the inexperienced SEEDs on the street launched themselves forward, two teams on each of their sides, obviously determined to engage them.

The three Guardians split up without delay, Scar and Seifer predictably moving towards opposite ends of the street to face one row of fighters each, while Itachi scanned the situation to find the quickest and safest route to get Harry out of the line of fire. He had the Summoner over his shoulders and was running up a nearby wall before Harry could even realize it.

It was a three-storey building with bow windows and elaborate wrought iron railings; they stopped behind the cover of the ornamental gargoyles on the roof edge, the bullets thrown at them by the closest snipers rendered ineffectual by the stone decorations and the ninja's nonchalant skill in equal measure.

That was the typical compromise they agreed to: Harry would not fight and needlessly endanger himself, but he would not be forced from the battlefield – and the chance to help his Guardians – entirely.

Laying down on the cold roof, Itachi and the Summoner peered down at the battle, ready to lend a hand if needed.

Unexpectedly, the red-headed twins proved just as capable of reacting promptly as the Guardians themselves: each of them was sided up to one Guardian, the grim focus they were bringing to the battle hidden behind manic grins.

The one next to Seifer was juggling a bright green bag and while the blond assessed the threats running at them again – their first charge had been disrupted by his Quake and less then half had proved experienced enough to still be standing afterwards – the wizard called out in fake cheerfulness: “Do have a sweet, my good people! I insist!”

He threw the content of his bag in the air and sugar-covered fruity treats of some sort rained everywhere; he jabbed his wand quickly and repeatedly, making them vanish in twos or threes.

“Good thing I learned Madam Pomphrey's dosing charms for unconscious patients,” he muttered as an aside, busy spelling the sweets directly into their opponents' stomachs.

Seifer released another Quake to explode under the attackers' feet and readied a widespread Firaga.

He noticed, however, that even the three who'd managed to stay on their feet were faltering: a short young woman with a sober eye-patch sprouted boils all over, a muscled man with a morning star grimaced in pain for no apparent reason and the third one, a thin and tanned teenager martial artist, stared in horror as bat-like creatures made of snot tore their way out of his nose; the downed ones started screaming for the same reason or because their clothes were morphing into insects or snakes.

“Sugar Hexes,” explained the wizard with grim satisfaction. “A Galleon the bag, if you're interested!”

Meanwhile his brother had judged the hidden and not-so-hidden snipers a bigger threat than the openly attacking combatants, so after casting a few disarming and tripping hexes at the fighters, without so much success as he'd hoped, he'd teleported himself onto a roof with a loud cracking technique.

That left Scar to handle the other wave of attacking cadets on his own and he swivelled just in time to raise a Shell against the first barrage of magical attacks and parry the physical ones, impressing the hell out of the one shooter of their party when he batted each and every bullet out of thin air with a blade he'd snatched from an unlucky knives-wielder: practice with Itachi's shuriken was paying off.

Then he charged his arm and destroyed a good portion of the street, leaving the young fighters bleeding, broken and in total disarray.

Without delay, he ran up the nearest wall (a trick he'd learned from Itachi) and to the red-head's side: the wizard had found tougher nuts than he'd expected and his useless left arm was a testimony to the fact that his magic couldn't stop bullets. He was nonetheless relying heavily on shields and moving little, except to teleport randomly all over the roofs with the customary loud cracks.

As young as they were, though, their ambushers were still SEED cadets and well trained to track a target's movements, even when apparently unpredictable; by the time Scar got to him and started instructing him on how to exploit the battlefield for cover, the red-head had already been nailed by several paramagic attacks, which his shield had been effective against, and more than one bullet, which had left him gasping with pain and unable to joke.

Seifer, for his part, moved swiftly among the opponents on the ground, knocking them out as quickly as he could and ensuring they were well and truly out of commission by breaking legs or arms and swiping up their Potions.

He was fast enough that despite the best efforts of the two combatants still fighting, only one Thundaga hit him squarely; he ignored the stiffness it left in his muscles with practised ease.

The red-headed wizard with him wasn't as lucky, or as well-trained; a pretty Blue Witch with short brown hair focused on him and her Sonic Waves kept disorienting him while her Laser attacks were doing a number on him. When a shooter abandoned the roofs, jumping down onto the street and redirecting his attention on him, the wizard went down at once and didn't get up.

Seeing this, Seifer switched his next attack to his No Mercy Limit Break, casting a fire spell onto the smart shooter, then spinning his gunblade around, focusing energy into it and taking a few steps back to gain the best angle for his attack: with an upward slash-motion, he launched circular blades of energy off, watching for a moment as the blast flew through the fighter and continued on towards the sky, leaving behind an explosion of flames that reduced the young man to a collapsed, moaning heap.

The brown-haired Blue Witch, the last one standing, looked frightened but determined; spying Scar on his way down with the other red-head in his arms, however, Seifer decided to ignore her and focused on his wizard partner.

The Ishvalan kicked the young woman unconscious and laid the second wizard beside his brother, checking that they were still only unconscious, if injured.

Itachi and Harry landed lightly next to them, looking unhappy.

The Summoner started healing the two red-heads, rather impressed by how they'd handled themselves despite their obvious lack of training; Itachi focused on his fellow Guardians instead.

“Military's blocking off virtually any road,” he informed them, monotonously. “Young fighters, likely cadets, are stationed all over the area. I noticed messengers being dispatched and attempts at radio communications. More experienced SEEDs are likely on their way.”

“We could try the sewers,” proposed Seifer, wiping sweat off his brow distractedly. “Wouldn't be the first time strike teams or rebel groups use them, they're a veritable maze of tunnels. I should be able to find my way down there, though.”

“They'll likely expect it,” pointed out Itachi.

“We'll have the advantage in contained spaces,” retorted the blond. “They'll have to come at us in small groups.”

“Agreed.”

“Let's go, then,” said Harry, raising from where he'd been feeding Potions to the unconscious wizards. “Fred and George should be fine, but they'll be out for a while yet.”

Nodding in acknowledgement, Scar and Itachi swung the two red-heads over their shoulders and Seifer took point, leading them quickly down darkened alleys and in and out of bars, warehouses and even a couple flats, where oblivious people sat around their evening meals while they slipped through their bedroom windows and up to the roofs or down to backstreets.

The fuzzy rain kept them company as they weaved in and out of the shadows around the pools of brightness city lights cast onto asphalt and stone.

They were almost at the entry point Seifer was aiming for, outside the Presidential Residence, when a jeep full of soldiers blocked their path.

“There they are! Get them!”

Readying themselves with bit-off curses, the Guardians spread out in a loose half-circle; Harry backed against a wall, dragging the still unconscious wizards with him.

Before any blow could be exchanged, an abrupt change in the air pressure heralded the arrival of an unexpected player.

Four impressive swords fell from the sky and embedded themselves in the street, shocking the blue-clad soldiers into dropping their weapons and making Seifer groan out loud.

Gilgamesh rose slowly from a crouch, the red of his outfit and make-up starker than usual against the dark greyness of Deling City, making the Guardians feel as if they were pushed out of the fight entirely by a strong wind. He grabbed the longest of the four swords quivering where they were impaled and slashed with it, leaving the faint impression of a green radial stroke against the back of their eyelids.

All of the soldiers crumbled, cut into pieces.

“You thrice-damned menace!” exploded Seifer, glaring up at the towering, demonic-looking figure. “Must you always meddle into other people's business!”

“SHUT UP!” bellowed Gilgamesh so loudly that the twins were startled awake with low moans. The attention of every party of soldiers in the neighbourhood was caught and they all converged onto their position, yelling excitedly at each other.

“Now look at what you did!” hissed Seifer, slashing his gunblade through the air ineffectively. “You bloody imbecile!”

“What...? Wait, who the hell are you?” asked Fred (or possibly George), groggy and bewildered.

“What the hell are you?” asked his twin at the same time, just as baffled.

“Never mind that now, let's get away before we have to fight the entire Galbadian Army!” grumbled a furious Scar.

Heedless of their irritation as well as its source, Gilgamesh didn't bother with hiding or lowering his voice. “You have returned!” he proclaimed in a shout. “And your Pilgrimage is drawing to a close!”

Practically, Itachi started to raise shields and was quickly imitated by his friends: they feared they would not be able to escape the strange being before the soldiers got to them.

“It is a glorious day! The Walker of Time is about to find his path and so are you!” rambled Gilgamesh loudly.

He pointed his arm at Harry with great drama. “I am observing you!” he half-yelled. “The Walker of Time is seeking powerful allies and the technological advances the hidden East can give him! But you! You have found your allies, but your destination is not clear to your eyes! Yet! He will confront the Sorceress that hunts him and you shall face your Nightmare!” he finished ominously.

“Hyne! You're a headache and a half, you are!” grumbled Seifer, rubbing his forehead.

A group of Galbadian soldiers either more ambitious or simply faster than the rest had come within range and raised their rifles. They were led by a broad-shouldered man with a red uniform instead of a blue one: he pointed at the demonic giant and bellowed: “Fire!”

That, even more than the volley of bullets that grazed him, seemed to catch Gilgamesh's attention. Turning to frown at the soldiers, he threw a hand out to another of the swords that were still embedded around him and slashed at them, lighting-quick.

When the red impression of his slice faded, however, the soldiers didn't look much worse for wear.

“Huh...? Should have used Masamune...” he muttered, peering at the sword crossly.

“Shoot him! Get him down!” bellowed the red-clad Galbadian again and was promptly obeyed.

Offended, Gilgamesh drew itself up to its full height – admittedly impressive – and yelled: "Fools! You face the mightiest of swordsmen! You face ME! GILGAMESH! I will turn you into onion rings!"

Seifer didn't bother to stifle his snort and the twins laughed outright.

More soldiers arrived at a run and took up position beside their comrades.

Scoffing, the overdramatic being turned his back on them all – somehow managing to stop the bullets in mid-air – and proclaimed grandly: “Go now, young Summoner! I shall deal with the nuisances in your path!”

Not willing to look a gift horse in the mouth, Harry and the others ran for the entryway to the sewers and hastily lowered themselves down.

While they were doing so, they heard Gilgamesh shout: “Enough expository banter! Now we fight like men! And ladies! And ladies who dress like men!”

In the last glimpse Harry had of him, he was pointing dramatically at one of the soldiers, who even hidden under his (or possibly her) anonymous armour looked embarrassed.

Seeing Seifer about to open his mouth, Scar told him firmly: “Don't even ask.”

The sewers were several degrees colder than above ground and predictably humid. They were, however, far less dark and smelly that Harry had expected.

The sounds of yelling and shooting above quickly faded, replaced by the dripping and sloshing of water.

The plain tunnels looked well maintained and a small cluster of red bats fluttered up in a corner, proving the existence of a healthy ecosystem in the underground area. They fluttered in agitation at their passing, but didn't get close.

Seifer got his bearings quickly and led the way confidently, thoughts of taking this opportunity to restock some of his paramagic dancing in his mind. He knew there were natural Esuna and Life springs in the area; if he could remember where the draw points were...

They had moved only a few turns in when a quivering shadow stood in their path, radiating hostility.

In the dim light, it resolved slowly into a child with long, wild black hair and cruel purple eyes. He was vibrating with energy like a tightly coiled spring.

“You... are the ones...” he whispered eerily, his low voice echoing in the empty tunnels.

He was clad in shorts held by odd suspenders and a black, sleeveless, high neck pullover that left his midriff bare; his feet were also bare, except for a black bandage around his right heel and calf. The skin tone of one of his arms and legs was different from the rest of him, as if they'd been attached to his body at a later date.

He gave an overall impression of fragility and youngness, yet something in him screamed of anything but 'child'.

Scar and Itachi recognized him at once for what he was and stepped forth aggressively, falling into their stances.

His cruel grin widened into a feral growl and the two wizards beside Harry shivered, unconsciously taking a few steps back.

“Let us pass, homunculus!” ordered Scar, venom in his voice.

“I'm going to _kill you ALL!”_ replied the creature, ending in a savage shout.

To their utter shock, he clapped his hands before his chest, forming a circle with his arms, and blue energy crackled from him abruptly, dancing along his limbs. He threw his hands to the ground with a gleeful shout and an Alchemic Circle blared for an instant bright blue before exploding the tiles of the floor into huge spikes intent on skewering his opponents.

The six of them barely managed to jump or apparate away before being pierced.

“How can it use Alchemy?” exclaimed Scar in shock.

The homunculus was running at them in a half crouch, keeping himself low on the floor. “I'll teach you to threaten my mommy!” he raged.

“What?!”

Seifer grabbed Harry and swung him around and down a side passage. It was almost entirely occupied by flowing water, but it was the work of a moment to noisily drag a rusty ladder over and throw it across the canal to get to the ledge on the other side.

“Oi! Red-heads!” he yelled. “With me!”

The twins did not waste time in following him and Scar hastily destroyed the passage they'd just cleared, pushing the resulting boulders in the way to cover their retreat.

Itachi was busy keeping the short homunculus engaged. The child-looking creature had transmuted himself a couple of short, deadly blades and was holding his own against the ninja; kunai met blade again and again with resounding clangs and flying sparks as they danced around each other in close combat.

With snap judgement, Scar set himself to trap the fight within a contained area, destroying the entrances to any nearby tunnels. The last thing they needed was for the creature to escape into a maze and become a shadow among shadows, forever a threat of ambush past the next corner.

Itachi and he would work on a way out for themselves later.

The fight wove in and out of the smoke and debris Scar's systematic destruction was causing; the ninja had no difficulty keeping the homunculus at bay. Despite his amazing strength and speed, the creature was obviously self-taught when it came to martial arts: he relied almost exclusively on instinct and natural talent and the Guardian was slowly but surely wearying him down.

Very slowly.

The homunculus' endurance and powers of recuperation were astounding and Scar clenched his teeth: drawn-out physical struggles were not Itachi's strong point. He'd have to relieve his fellow Guardian soon...

Or maybe not.

A fireball exploded unexpectedly from the ninja's fast fingers and a screech of pain echoed in the destroyed area. Scar smirked.

The lithe body of the homunculus flew through the remnants of dust and smoke after a vicious blow to his midsection. A furious scream tore from his twisting body and when he impacted the wall, with enough force to leave a shallow crater, he screamed again, more in fury than pain.

Itachi was perfectly still, holding his form effortlessly; waiting.

The homunculus sprung to his feet with a bellow: “I will KILL you!”

A crackling blue energy signalled another Alchemic transmutation; he launched himself off the wall with the speed and force of a projectile and deadly spikes of rock tore out of the wall to flank him.

Itachi broke the huge spikes; Scar intercepted the homunculus and swung him around, throwing him violently into another wall.

With a broken cough, the creature got himself to his feet once more. “I won't... let... you...”

He glared at them through his long black bangs, fury and hatred positively radiating from him. “I won't LET you!”

“Let us... do what?” asked Itachi in a perfectly controlled, level voice. The softness of his tone almost made Scar wince.

In contrast, the homunculus' cry was loud, childish, ravaged with rage; almost feral. “You want to harm my mommy!”

That caught both Guardians by surprise.

“What? That's ridiculous!” blurted Scar, genuinely stupefied. The creature truly thought it had a _mother_?

“Liars!” the homunculus yelled, utterly furious. He clenched his fists at his side, arms rigid and back straight, glaring at them. “She told me! You... you horrible... SEEDs! You want to kill her!”

Itachi frowned minutely. “We are not SEEDs,” he said in clipped tones.

“LIARS!” the creature raged at them. “Murderers! I won't let you!”

“We're not...”

“My mommy doesn't lie!” the homunculus screeched, drowning out the ninja's cool denial. He pointed at them accusingly: “You're SEEDs! You want her dead! _I won't let you harm her!”_

He took off at a run towards them, then, swooping in a controlled slide over the wet pavement, he clapped his hands loudly in a Circle, electricity dancing at his fingertips and arching off him along the water, while he used his momentum to spin and launch a powerful kick from underneath them.

Scar and Itachi reacted together, jumping away and then moving back as one, seamlessly, against the threat. A precise hit from the ninja, a potent kick from the Ishvalan, and the homunculus was flying through the air again, his body discomposed, yet landing gathered and coiled, ready to launch himself off again.

And again.

The amount of physical punishment the homunculus was enduring was bordering on absurd, yet his speed and strength didn't diminish in the least.

On the other hand, he had yet to land a hit on either Guardian.

His random bursts of Alchemic attacks were the only serious concern. The sheer unpredictability of what he could do made him dangerous; however, no matter how skilled and deadly the child-looking creature was, he was also prone to losing control and descend into violent fits of temper.

Scar exploded the floor beneath his feet and Itachi threw a chakra-laden fiery dragon above his head at the same time; caught between the powerful attacks, the homunculus jerked and moaned in pain, crumbling, then gasped and cried and scrambled to get himself away and somewhere safer.

Dust settled slowly and the two Guardians faced him once more, tall and composed in the middle of a disaster area that threatened to collapse onto them all at any next blow to its structure. The homunculus was whining softly and breathing laboriously, tensed, forcing himself up into a half-crouch, one leg extended to the side, hands lightly supporting him.

“I won't let you hurt my mommy!” he yelled again, irrationally and burst into sobs. “I won't! I won't!”

“We have no reason to,” pointed out Itachi, opposing his perfect, cool rationality to the unreasoning behaviour of his foe, with the same imperturbability as when he opposed his hits with an unflawed guard.

Scar was much less composed. “You don't have a mother, you wretched abomination!” he shouted, blowing up a sidewall and raining detritus over the small figure vibrating with rage.

A low rumble started running along the ceiling of the abused tunnels, threatening a rockslide.

“LIES!” the homunculus shrieked. “She's my mommy! Mine! MINE! And you won't get her! I WILL KILL YOU!”

He lunged at them again, with twice as much fury and a lot less coordination than earlier, which made him harder to deal with: like a rabid animal, thought Scar, curling his lips in disgust.

Laconically, Itachi ordered: “Trap and hold.”

With understanding born of familiarity, Scar worked out his friend's plan at once and promptly launched into a flurry of attacks that gave the homunculus no quarter, putting all of his strength and speed into the task of corralling him into a corner where Itachi could nail him with an overwhelming attack, like he'd done to the one in the Forest.

He barely had the time to be glad of his foresight in fighting him in a contained area, before the advantage was voided: feeling trapped, the homunculus turned and ran at full speed towards the wall, neither stopping nor ricocheting off it like they expected, but rather – to their shock – merging with it.

Yet another impossible ability the creature was unexpectedly displaying.

His body fused with the stone fluidly, taking on the look and consistence of the wall he was about to pass through; he paused halfway through, one arm and his head still out, to whip his long, wild hair around and glare one last time: “I. Will. Kill. You. All!” he shouted and disappeared into the stone.

Scar cursed heartily. “Now what?”

Itachi's countenance showed nothing of the irritation he had to be feeling.

He disappeared his kunai somewhere on his person and made his way silently to a water wheel spinning lazily some way off. “Now, we find Harry,” he said quietly and jumped on the wheel with light grace, letting it transport him over until he could easily move onto a beam and disappear further down the tunnel.

Scar kicked some rubble with a last curse, for good measure, then followed him, stalking like an angry jaguar.

Meanwhile, Harry and the others were having some problems of their own. Though Seifer classed them more like annoyances than actual threats.

His plan had been to lead Harry and the wizards through the sewers and out of the city as quickly as possible, but he hadn't counted on Creeps slowing them down so much. Every corner they turned seemed to be hiding a couple of the eerie things, creeping around like shadows, slinking into their path, stretching their disproportionate fingers with unnerving greed.

It was a damn infestation!

Granted, they weren't much of a challenge. The twin wizards had been beyond shocked when a Thunder had exploded over them right _after_ the eerie black monster had been defeated, but once they'd got with the program, they had been just as efficient at dealing with the nuisances as Harry and Seifer, which was good. It was also good that the Creeps in the area were low-level. Seifer knew all too well how much damage the damn things could inflict when on the brink of death. At least none of them had cast Heartbreak – that attack was a pain in the ass he didn't want to deal with.

Still, they were slowing them down and that was just too irritating for words.

“Change of plans,” he announced with a glare into nothing. “Let's use the canals rather than the tunnels. They don't like to touch water, they won't follow us there. We'll end up wet and dirty with disgustingly slimy things, but better than the alternative.”

“Seconded,” said Harry at once.

“Wet and slimy is not a problem!” chimed in George with a too wide smile.

The twin wizards, it turned out, had a lot of experience with icky stuff. They knew spells to keep _anything_ off their skin and robes.

“When you like to play around with Potions and ingredients as much as we do, this kind of domestic spells are a must!” commented Fred lightly.

“Plus, Mum would have skinned us alive if we didn't learn to pick up after ourselves,” added his brother sagely.

“And being the geniuses that we are...”

“...we figured out pretty soon that _not making_ a mess is quicker and less tiring than cleaning it up afterwards!”

“Brilliant,” was Harry's fervent comment. He was totally going to learn those spells – it'd make his Alchemist dabbling much less messy.

Seifer's idea worked and they managed to pick up speed and make good progress towards the exit he knew would lead them out into the plains – but suddenly a rust covered, slightly stinky ladder before them disappeared with a pop in a cloud of white smoke, leaving in its place a crouched, grey-clad human figure. The head and face were completely covered by an adherent black cloth with an attached metallic plate showing a musical note and a snake-like neck-cloth was wrapped around his throat.

“What the...!”

In their surprise, the four splashed a lot of dirty water around as they stumbled back a few steps and gripped each other for balance.

Slowly and with an overdramatic scraping sound, the masked man drew a curved blade from a scabbard on his back. Seifer rolled his eyes and brandished Hyperion, sloshing to step in front of Harry.

Then. Then! Two more pops with a side dish of white smoke flared _behind_ them. Two other men in the same hooded masks and patterned neck-cloths were suddenly there, both sporting the musical note on their plates; their grey tunics flowed around their legs as they raised menacingly to their feet and their tight cloth belts supported a whip and a nunchaku respectively. They were standing _on_ the water, cool as cucumbers.

Seifer cursed, recognizing the skilled fighters in grey from the Battle in the Forest: he snapped out a terse warning and stepped back closer to the Summoner, fighting his instinct to launch himself into battle because he was the only one there to protect Harry this time. Fred and George let out dismayed groans and raised their wands, closing ranks, while Harry started twirling his Rod in a pattern for speed boosting. Peach-coloured impressions of translucent watches flared briefly around the four, granting them all the odd, deceitful impression that the world was slowing down around them.

Before the fight broke out in earnest, three more combatants arrived at a run from a tunnel in the direction where the exit should be, one of them with a massive wolf on his heels. They were similarly dressed, but with different symbols on their metal plaques; two quickly flanked the still-crouched fighter who'd appeared first, while the third and tallest flared his fingers in handsigns Itachi often used and vanished mid-step, only to reappear on the other side of the assembled group, pivoting into a fighting stance.

“Dammit!” grumbled Seifer and snapped a Protect around Harry just as the six grey-clad ninjas attacked, and three more spilled into the tunnel, drawing their weapons.

With quick, sure slashes, the Guardian took care of the two who reached them first, despite the disadvantage of being below them and in the water; then cursed loudly as the snarling wolf and his vicious partner closed in on him, their teeth and claws and spiked boots testing his reflexes to his limits in a pandemonium of splashes and thuds and yells.

A grenade went off, courtesy of the Summoner, scattering the incoming rearguard, then as soon as they'd collected themselves somewhat, it went off again, in true Harry style, this time with an Ice component to the explosion that left all three bleeding and shivering.

On the other side of the battlefield, one of the grey-clad, music-note-marked fighters was down, his nunchaku in splinters and vicious, minuscule wooden birds battering him in swoops like military aircraft formations. The other two ninja crowded the twins aggressively, but strangely enough, the red-heads were quickly gaining the upper hand: they'd dealt with the water somehow and without that impediment, the restricted space in which the fighting was taking place worked in their favour.

The enemies were amazingly skilled combatants, but unfamiliar with each other's styles: they kept getting in their partner's way as they both tried to attack at the same time; Fred and George, on the other hand, might have been only mediocre fighters, but the way they coordinated their movements with nothing more than half a look, as if they could read each other's mind as easily as breathing, made them formidable opponents.

They weren't two wizards: they were a single unit with four arms, four legs, two quick wands and a whole lot of creative ideas – soon enough, uncontrolled laughter, oddly swollen joints and pulsing sting marks were plaguing their enemies.

A thunder exploded loudly around Seifer and a pained howl echoed along with the rumbling as electricity coursed the wolf's nerves, incapacitating him. A gunblade shot point-blank downed Seifer's other attacker and almost at once, green-tinged bubbles of magic swirled around him and through him, as Harry healed what scrapes and bruises he'd collected.

“Do you think there are others around?” asked the Summoner, slightly worried about his missing Guardians.

“Let's not stick around to find out,” replied Seifer grimly and herded his charges off, carelessly stepping over the tentacled, oddly-spotted and, in places, oozing victims of Fred and George's creativity. He barely stopped to knock the only stirring one unconscious.

They sped down a corridor and waded a shallow canal, turned around and back from a rusty, collapsed ladder and hurried left, then left again, until Seifer recognized the two connected water wheels he'd been looking for, then down a few steps and up again on the other side and if he remembered correctly, the next turn right would be the last but one...

“Stop!” yelled Harry unexpectedly.

“What?!” barked Seifer, spinning around, gunblade at the ready.

But it wasn't an enemy the Summoner was pointing at: it was a Window.

It shined with soft sunlight beyond well-maintained wrought iron gates that probably indicated a sluice. A slight, moss-scented breeze was moving from the warmer atmosphere beyond into the cool underground they were in.

The twins ran to it at once, peering through and whooping.

“I can see Hogwarts!” cried George (or possibly Fred) in undisguised relief. “Let's go, quickly!”

Harry scowled. “We have to find my Guardians first! I'm not leaving them behind.”

“Let's protect the passage,” suggested Seifer, all too aware of the precarious nature of the Windows. “Make sure no-one but us can go through, and any fighting doesn't come too close.”

“Good point,” nodded Harry fervently and they set to ward the corner.

There was also a swirling, evanescently pink draw point hidden nearby. Seifer tested it and smiled in satisfaction: “Esuna!” he identified, promptly replenishing his stock.

“Alright,” called out one of the twins. “We've added every ward Bill taught us. Nothing should be able to cross--”

An explosion of rubble tore through a wall, rocks sliding and tumbling across the passage and right into their warded corner, making them yelp; there was smoke and dust blinding them and heavy rubble flying past their ears... and two tall figures calmly stepping through the chaos as if on a stroll in a park.

“The homunculus escaped us,” said the figure on the left, resolving itself into Itachi, somehow clearly audible despite the pandemonium around them.

“Finding it is going to be a pain,” grumbled Scar, by his side, radiating anger from every tense muscle. “This place is a maze, and guess what? It can walk through walls.”

“Riiight...” drawled Harry, gaping through the goggles he'd pulled on when the smoke had started spreading.

Seifer half-chocked on a laugh. He moved out of the warded corner, questions bubbling up, but the surprises weren't over.

“Furthermore, he seems convinced that we are attempting to harm his mother,” added Itachi with a very slight frown. “I find it disturbing – how could he have come upon information about us that would lead him to such a conclusion?”

“Leaving aside the fact that it's a homunculus, its having a mother is ludicrous,” added Scar in a disgusted tone.

“Why would he think we're out to kill his mother?” asked one of the twins in bewilderment.

“Because we're SEEDs, apparently.”

“What?” Harry's jaw dropped. “Seriously?”

“Wait, go back to the 'passing through walls' thing...” said Seifer.

As the two Guardians summarized their skirmish with the strange homunculus, the dust and debris slowly settled all around them, leaving the six in the middle of a devastated, but at last quiet, area. The soft sounds of the water sloshing around new obstacles – rocks and pieces fallen into its path – and dripping from the walls onto which it had been splashed up, rose to fill the silence while they pondered on the information.

“Well,” said Fred (or George) faintly after a while. “At least our wards are as good as we thought. Some stuff passed the outer layers, but none of the rubble got all the way through.” He gestured to the Window behind them, still quietly open on a sunny afternoon somewhere entirely else.

That was true. If poor consolation.

“Alright. Focus,” said Harry sternly. “We need to find the homunculus. How are we going to track him in this labyrinth? The corridors and streams are all alike – and filled with monsters to boot.”

“Do we have to...?” started Seifer.

“YES!”

The blond Guardian raised his hands in mock surrender.

“He might come to us. He attacked us twice while we were looking for you,” pointed out Itachi.

Scar nodded along: “Blitz attacks - darting in and out again, taking refuge through walls we cannot easily pass.”

“We will have to find a way to contain it if we want answers,” added Itachi coolly.

“Which we do,” agreed Harry with a sigh. “At the very least we need to find out who could possibly have known enough about us to describe us to him...”

“There's a chance he's from the Galbadian Garden,” muttered Seifer, old shame rising in him at the thought of the red building. He pushed it down determinedly. That was a different life.

“What makes you think that?” asked Itachi neutrally – not doubting Seifer's knowledge of this world, nor his intuition, but curious nonetheless.

“Any information the Sorceress has on SEEDs likely comes from a Garden. It's the headquarters of her enemies, after all. It makes sense that she would send an undercover agent there and what better option than a child who's not a child? The one in Galbadia is considered a part of the local military, rather than an independent mercenary-only force, so now that she's in charge here, it's part of _her_ military. She controls it. When I was sent to take it over... some of the students followed her – followed me – out of loyalty to their country. Any dissenter either fell to mind control quickly or...”

He swallowed, unable to complete the thought.

Itachi had no such qualms: “They were locked up out of the way, tortured for information, the usual.”

Harry shivered; Seifer made a horrible face, images of D District rising along with bile in his mouth, but didn't say anything. There wasn't anything to say.

“In any case, the homunculus must have gained its knowledge of SEEDs there.”

“Still doesn't explain why us...” frowned Harry.

Seifer shrugged. “Might just be that we look like SEEDs. Or how he thinks SEEDs look. Or something.”

“My, my. You sure have a lot of theories,” said a soft, low, woman's voice.

They turned in surprise, weapons appearing in their hands as if by magic. Harry felt Scar, beside him, start and gasp out a curse, but he regained control quickly, muttering: “Impossible.” Seifer whistled softly.

She was tall, willowy and dark, with skin as pale as moonlight and incredibly long, wawy hair, blacker than the dead of night. The mark of a homunculus was tattooed over her left breast, as red as her lipstick. Her black dress left her shoulders bared and showed off her luscious figure, ending with a small flare mid-calf. High-heeled boots and long black gloves completed her outfit.

She made no sign of having noticed their reactions.

Beside her, another creature was grinning like a loon: it was short – barely reached her waist – bald and fat, with deformed features and thick, gorilla-like arms. He, too, was dressed in black, pants and a vest and a belt.

Even Itachi frowned minutely. How had they not noticed them arrive?

“I'm hungry,” the shorter creature rasped in an oddly soft, droning voice, baring an array of teeth. “Can I eat them?”

Harry gaped: he couldn't help it. He had seen a number of strange creatures in his travels, but this one left him inexplicably uneasy. Its eyes were little round, white holes: completely blank, void of any emotion or intelligence.

The two made a strange tableau – tall, gorgeous woman and squat, big-nosed monster – yet somehow… they fit.

The Summoner's eyes were drawn every few moments to the odd red markings on the two newcomers' shoulders and arms, which gave him the unnerving feeling some Runes did, of almost but not quite understanding their meaning. He was sure he'd end up with a headache if he could find the time to puzzle them out.

An unwelcome head of wild hair framing purple eyes popped out from behind the woman, glaring at them.

“There they are!” yelled the child-homunculus, pointing dramatically. “KILL THEM!”

Seifer and Scar groaned openly.

The woman sighed deeply, flicking a lock of her luxurious mane away from her face. She had unnaturally long nails under her black gloves.

“They want to hurt my mommy!” the homunculus insisted, whimpering pitifully.

“Poor baby,” she cooed coolly, making her disinterest in the situation obvious. “We should kill them, then, hm?”

“YES!”

The fat creature shifted its weight and wailed softly: “Can I eat them now?”

It was, quite literally, salivating, noted Harry with disgust. A disproportionately long tongue licked the creature's lips and teeth eagerly, displaying its ouroboros mark.

“Just make it quick,” said its woman-like companion quietly, closing her eyes as if bored.

With a cry of mingled glee and eagerness, the fat homunculus lunged at its prey.

Guardians and Summoner scattered with practised ease.

The way it moved was as disconcerting as the rest of it. It wobbled, swinging its too-long arms like a gorilla, but at the same time, it ran with full speed. And the way its bared teeth seemed to grow in size and brightness as it drew closer was nothing short of unnerving.

A brief, violent clash with Scar repelled him and Seifer threw out a Fira for good measure, which managed to scorch the child-homunculus too. The two hissed and raged, but even as they backed off, they were already healing.

“Let's lure them away from the Window,” murmured Seifer, not taking his eyes off them.

“Good idea.”

Harry exchanged a meaningful look over his shoulder with Fred and George, who quickly took up position before the Window, determined to protect it.

Unfortunately, this drew the attention of the child-homunculus and his purple eyes went impossibly wide when he caught sight of the sun-drenched square of Otherness.

“NO!” he yelled and took off at a run, not towards the Summoner and his Guardians, but towards the wizards.

Scar and Seifer moved to intercept him but weren't quick enough and the creature jumped or bent, crawled or leaped to avoid them.

“You will not escape into another world like _that man!_ ” the homunculus shouted.

Startled, the Guardians faltered in their attack.

“What man?” asked Harry, puzzled.

“The BASTARD who made my mommy cry!” the homunculus spat with fury and disgust. “Voldemort!”

Everybody froze.

“I'm going to eat you!” came a rumbling, eager announcement from behind them and with a snarl, Scar turned to kick the fat homunculus, leaving the other five to gape at the completely unexpected declaration of the child-homunculus.

For his part, he didn't appear to notice their shock and just ranted on: “I will kill him if he returns! _Nobody hurts my mommy!_ ”

He slammed himself against the shield the twins had raised and started raging: “No! You will not run away! I'll kill you! You can't hurt my mommy! You're just like him! He made her cry! Bastard! No no no no!”

“Boy, but you're annoying,” grumbled Harry, as the two wizards, somewhat overcoming their shock, started firing curses at the raving homunculus, while Seifer turned to support Scar against the other two – barely raising Hyperion in time to block the woman-like creature's unnatural long, flexible claws, which to his shock and fury, turned out to be sharp enough to _mark his blade._

She smirked at him, smug and cruel and utterly beautiful in a vaguely horrific way. With a growl of pure rage, he lunged at her and the battle was on.

The hexes and curses of the twins didn't seem to have much of an effect on the irate homunculus, who only stopped hammering the shield with his fist to whirl and spit at Harry: “You can't get at her! You won't escape! I will stop you!”

Harry sighed impatiently: “You know, kid, you've got a serious case of confusion!”

“You won't make my mommy cry!”

“I don't even know who your mom is!” screamed Harry in frustration.

“My mommy is the best Sorceress of all time!”

“Oh, _great_ ,” spat Seifer, who had, apparently, been blasted back right in time to catch the declaration.

Harry swung his Rod into the woman-homunculus' belly right as she clawed through Seifer's Protego, long blueish slashes flaring and disappearing in the wake of her fingernails.

Seifer cut her in half, discharging a blast of his gunblade into her body, and she screamed as she collapsed.

“The Sorceress is in league with Voldemort?” he asked in disbelief, barely paying attention to the fight anymore.

“Well, was rather than is, I gather,” corrected Harry, feeling a bit dazed. “But still.”

“So it would seem,” agreed Itachi, carelessly throwing the homunculus' body as far away as he could. It was already twitching to repair the damage they'd inflicted on it, gasping and coughing all the time.

“Unbelievable!” hissed Seifer.

Fred and George's voices rose in a string of nonsensical words that raised an opaque curtain around their corner, then cut off abruptly and Harry guessed they'd cast some sort of silencing ward.

The child-homunculus realized the Window was safely beyond his reach and proceeded to throw a tantrum.

“This is all your fault!” he bellowed and jumped on Harry, somehow producing a blade in mid-lunge.

Itachi was a blur as he threw the creature back and followed up with a powerful attack, blowing the homunculus over Scar's and his two opponents' heads and sending him to crash somewhere down the darkened tunnel.

Harry did not waste time worrying about him: the other two enemies were attacking again.

Hands joined in a combined fist, the fat homunculus tried to hammer Itachi straight in the stomach; the Guardian was no longer there however, and the fist impacted nothing but tiled floor, raising a cloud of dust and tile fragments. Its companion slashed through it, tearing stone and tiles apart as if they were cloth and forcing the Guardians to dodge her hits rather than retaliate.

Easily able to see thanks to his goggles, Harry almost wished the dust and smoke were blinding him. The creature advancing on him was disgusting, saliva dripping from its lolling tongue and hands clenching and unclenching in a greedy grasp.

Itachi appeared out of nowhere, flanking Seifer who was shielding the Summoner with his body; a roar of rage came from an invisible Scar, hidden somewhere in the whitish smoke, quickly followed by a cry of pain from the female homunculus.

“Let's split!” called out Harry and using his Rod as a pole, vaulted over the fat homunculus, startling it, then started running away from the Window, knowing the creature had pivoted to hunt him.

As he expected, he hadn't gone five steps before Itachi was by his side, running backwards and yet keeping pace while flowing through handsigns to throw small fire attacks against their pursuer.

The fat homunculus roared in glee and opened its mouth impossibly wide, swallowing the fireballs.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Seifer grabbing the woman-homunculus by the waist and dragging her away down a corridor to the right, Scar keeping her claws busy with a flurry of hits.

Turning sharply to the left, the Summoner dashed away, Itachi keeping himself between Harry and the homunculus in hot pursuit.

When he found a crossroad of tunnels with a huge wheel, he put up a burst of speed and ducked behind the shelter of the slowly turning gear.

Stopping to face their foe, Itachi flashed his kunai briefly and tore through the homunculus' flesh with almost no resistance. The creature's arms fell to the ground, neatly cut, and it screamed. The severed limbs crumbled into black ashes, but it made little difference: blood-red lightning coursed over the stumps and under their very eyes, the arms reformed, skeletal bones sprouting and lengthening, muscles and fat covering them, skin enveloping the renewed limbs.

Itachi jumped back to join the Summoner and quickly raised the scant water of the channel in a protective, thin wall.

With a frown of great displeasure, the homunculus shook itself all over, like a dog getting rid of excess water, and launched itself at them once more.

Harry narrowed his eyes behind his goggles and evaluated speeds and distances. A small bomb soared from his hand in a graceful arc and fell right before the running homunculus' feet, exploding on impact. It blew the creature up and straight into the ceiling.

For a long moment, nothing moved except pieces of the homunculus falling here and there in bloody messes. Then the torn flesh quivered and, as if attracted by an irresistible force, pulled together piece by piece, getting stuck in a deformed lump that slowly, with a rasping sound, pushed itself into its original form. Red lighting ran up and down the lump, shaping it further, until the homunculus stood once again fully healed before them.

Itachi didn't let it discompose him and simply threw an explosive tag wrapped around a kunai straight at the reforming homunculus. It blew up again, and again, it pulled itself together.

Another explosive tag sailed through the air and impacted the creature's shoulder, blowing its left side entirely apart. Blood spurted everywhere. Nervous red energy set to fix the damage.

Oddly calm, Harry readied another bomb, recalling Dumbledore’s advice: _The only way to kill a homunculus is by expending all of the power that was granted to them, leaving them unable to revive themselves once they have been killed..._

Alright then. Slow and gruesome it was.

Itachi's thoughts had clearly followed a similar path. “Attrition,” the Guardian said laconically and Harry nodded.

With quick, smooth moves of his Rod, the Summoner drew an insubstantial clock in the air above the homunculus' head, then cast the particular twist that would Slow it down – something he was rather proud of, since he hadn't known it was possible to mimic this particular monster's ability until Seifer had assured him so and he'd had to work out how to do it all on his own. Ethereal chains wrapped around the image of the clock before it sank into their attacker, drawing a confused roar from it.

“What… did… you… do…?”

Its question came out as a drawn-out bellow and its face frowned in anger and confusion. Its every movement slowed down until it looked like it was moving through treacle rather than simple air. Harry smiled.

Bomb followed exploding tag and jutsu followed grenade in an almost choreographed sequence, a finely timed barrage: sometimes destroying parts of the homunculus, sometimes simply blowing it back, but never giving it a moment's rest.

The glutton however kept advancing with drawn-out determination, always changing the angle of attack, always being stopped and hurt, always regenerating and charging again, unstoppable. It was like it didn't even feel their hits.

Except… it did feel them. It wasn't evident, especially with the fading effects of Harry's Slow still hampering it, but its attacks were neither as ferocious nor as potent as they'd been at first. The homunculus kept regenerating itself, red lighting scouring its body again and again in an almost continuous flow of slight discharges, but the reforming of body parts was slower and slower and the homunculus almost looked… diminished.

Their strategy was working.

It was costly, though.

Even though they were taking no hits, keeping up the barrage of explosions was taxing, especially to Itachi, who'd already been fighting quite a lot; not to mention, their supply of various explosives was dwindling to dangerously low levels.

Harry was almost to the point of admitting they should give up, when Itachi threw their only remaining Supreme Gem – a strange, smelly piece of orangey porous rock which exploded on impact with a devastating blast; and suddenly, something seemed to break inside the homunculus and an inhuman cry, ear-splitting and wrathfully desperate, erupted from somewhere around its stomach.

Confused, the glutton stumbled and coughed and finally vomited up a broken cup. It was a lovely piece of craftsmanship, golden and etched and elegantly shaped, but in miserable condition. Something black and disgusting was oozing from it, desecrating its beauty.

Paying little attention to it, Harry threw out his last two bombs at once, after having hastily tied them together with a Poison Fang.

It was, at long last, enough.

The homunculus was no longer recovering: a few, weak flares of the red lighting burst here or there, but they quickly waned into nothingness. Acridic venom was burning a path through the ravaged body. Instead of pulling itself together, the deformed mass of flesh was liquefying into a red ooze.

The last drop plopped to the ground, and all was still: the miserable thing was no more.

With tired sighs and no little disgust at having to wade through the remains of the battle, Harry and Itachi made their way slowly back to the others. The lack of screaming or rumble seemed to indicate that the battle was over for them too…

Sure enough, Scar and Seifer were panting and bleeding from a number of long gashes all over their bodies, most of their clothes in tatters, but the woman-like homunculus lay broken at their feet, slowly oozing into a pool of nasty red.

“Scarface had a trick up his sleeve,” Seifer informed them cheerfully. “Locked her into immobility, believe it or not.”

Scar replied to their surprised glances with a rigid shrug: “It was a one-time thing,” he bit out through clenched teeth and would say no more.

Worried by Scar's stony silence, Harry tentatively put a hand on his arm, but the Ishvalan shrugged him off, eyes clouded with too many emotions to discern. Seifer intercepted Harry's eyes and gave him a grimace and a shake of the head. _Leave it be_ , he mouthed and the Summoner hesitantly obeyed.

Whatever had spooked Scar, it wasn't the time to discuss it.

“A blessing, let me tell you. Before he did his mumbo-jumbo, I wasn't sure we'd get out with our eyes in their proper place. Damn woman was like a crazy cat,” grumbled Seifer, rummaging for Potions and throwing a couple to the others too. “Claws sharper than blades, and an attitude to go with it. Gah! Good thing I'd found a spring of Esuna earlier, who knows what that cat had in her claws?” he prattled on, keeping attention on himself to give Scar a chance to brood in peace. “And look at this! My blade, my precious blade!” he wailed, caressing the scarred Hyperion dramatically.

Harry could only laugh.

“Did you think you could get rid of me so easily?”

The annoying, childish voice silenced them abruptly. Hissed groans of frustration greeted the less-than-welcome reappearance of the child homunculus, who stood straight in their path, fairly vibrating with tension and repressed fury.

Harry patiently ignored the way his Guardians pushed him back and behind the shelter of their bodies and tuned out whatever the creature was shouting cockily. Enough was enough! He closed his eyes, focusing inward: it was time to bring things to an end.

Grimly, the three Guardians serrated their ranks, betraying nothing of their worry, ready to take on the indestructible enemy again and again, if necessary. But Harry was fed up with the entire situation.

“I've had it with this!” he whispered grimly.

He planted himself firmly on the ground and opened his arms wide in a gesture that was both prayer and welcome, then with a deep breath he sank into the half-meditative state that helped him contact his Aeons.

They were all eager to be called, as usual, and quickly making his choice, he twirled his Rod in a coaxing move, feeling grimly satisfied at the greenish evanescent globules of energy bubbling into existence all around him.

When the luminescent Circles Harry never really paid any mind to appeared on the ground around him, the homunculus yelped and jumped back, then jumped away again, and again, yelling indignantly.

“What... a Trasmutation Circle?” the strange eyes were widening in alarm. “You... you're not SEEDs! You're like that bastard Elric!”

A loud clap of his hands and a blue flash made his Alchemy flare and he slammed his hands on a wall. “It's not fair!” he screamed. Huge cones burst out of the rock, somewhat shielding him.

The Summoner paid him no mind. Globes of light shot up towards the distant sky from all around Harry and the homunculus scowled, shouting defiantly: “Whatever you're trying to do, it won't work!”

Harry ignored him, and instead slashed his Rod decisively downwards and to the right, lowering himself on one knee, at the ready. Behind him, the ground suddenly iced over and huge ice prisms grew out of it, towering over the Summoner and his Guardians like imposing cliffs, while a chilly wind ruffled their clothes. Evidently, the Aeon had decided to manifest as a Queen of Ice this time.

Harry could never be quite sure how it would come out, but no matter what its choice was, it was always devastating.

A streak of white light fell through the atmosphere and crashed into the huge ice crystals, breaking them into a thousand sharp icicles that shot towards the homunculus unerringly, dodging allies and rock formations easily and shooting straight at the foe, as if they had a mind of their own.

Then the tunnel seemed to almost fade into blackness all around them, when the enormous creature of ice and rock stood slowly behind its Summoner, dwarfing him with its majestic potency. Its pupil-less eyes were solid azure sapphires, its snowy cloak a whiff of icy wind drifting around them, cold but not unpleasant, not for them.

Their enemy was another matter.

The walls the homunculus tried to merge with crumbled under the deceptively delicate fist of the Queen of Ice. Thwarting his futile attempts at escape, the Aeon trapped the homunculus in an ice casing, congealing him in an unnatural pose.

A moment of suspended, icy wait, then the ice splintered with a thunderous noise, cracking into terribly sharp shards and tumbling down onto the captive enemy's body, torturing it over and over, indifferent to his screams, and later, his squeaks.

Then the majestic Aeon dissolved into nothingness, returning to the non-space where only Harry could feel it, reassurance flowing down their bond along with satisfaction for a job well done.

And silence reigned.

The half-destroyed tunnel seemed claustrophobically smaller all of a sudden. Harry wavered, tiredness slamming into him like a physical blow, and only Seifer's solid arms kept him upright. Itachi was still perfectly alert, but nonetheless grey with fatigue; Scar hovered by his side, ready to support him if needed.

The small, broken body of the child-homunculus was collapsed in a heap on the floor, crying weakly, sobbing for his 'mommy' even as it slowly liquefied into red ooze.

They left him there without a care.

When they got back to the shielded area where the Window waited, they found Fred and George in a right state.

The huge, multi-legged body of a Grand Mantis lay beyond them, the narrow tail still curved forward over its broken back, its venomous stinger posed for a strike it would never launch. Clearly, the wizards' wards had not affected it, but they'd managed to handle it.

Seifer whistled in admiration. Grand Mantises weren't easy for beginners – especially magic-oriented beginners.

“Well done,” commented Scar soberly.

The twins were visibly shaken.

“Our... our magic!” one of them forced out. “It didn't work anymore!” It was a horrified wail, the gasp of a lost and frightened child.

Perplexed by their reaction, the Guardians nevertheless nodded in understanding: “Silence,” they explained. “It's a status that removes the victim's energy source and speech, which prevents them from casting...”

The twins shuddered visibly and recoiled. “They can block our magic?” they cried, horrified.

“Here,” said Harry, rummaging in one of his many satchels and handing out bracelets of braided leaves – they were a dusty dark green and smelled funny. Nestled within the wooden clasp were tiny obsidian gems.

“Tamarind?” wondered George dubiously. The spicy aroma was close but not quite right.

Harry shook his head: “Echo Herbs. If infused, they cure the status; in this form, and if properly anchored by obsidian, they protect the wearer.”

Still pale as ghosts, the two wizards gathered the bracelets and examined them closely, eyes lit up with speculative relief: no doubt their shop would soon carry similar items.

“Can we go back home, now?” they asked in a rather pitiful tone.

They immediately recovered: “I mean, not that I'm not having fun,” assured one.

“Whole other world. Whew. It's great!” nodded his brother with fake enthusiasm.

“Stuff for many a future night when we won't have to pay for our own Firewhiskey!”

“But, you know. _Too much of a good thing_...”

Harry laughed weakly.

The people at Hogwarts were loud in their relief at seeing them returned safely. Their disappearance from Diagon Alley had caused a panic, it seemed. Few bothered to wonder how and why they emerged from the Forbidden Forest by the school, rather than in London, and they offered no explanation.

Fred and George were the heroes of the hour and with great relief, the Summoner and his Guardians left them to bask in the squealing admiration of the students (and to sell their products while they were at it).

“So...” drawled Harry, off to one side in the privacy granted them by everybody's attention being elsewhere.

“Voldemort can move through worlds,” said Seifer. “Ain't that a lark?”

“So can the homunculi,” pointed out Scar, less than happily. “They're everywhere.”

“It wasn't coincidence that we crossed right where that homunculus was laying in wait,” said Itachi.

"And we know what that means..." sighed Scar.

Less then pleased but more or less reconciled with the idea, Harry grasped his Rod. It was humming encouragingly again. 

“I guess I've found my path,” he commented with light sarcasm.

“Come on,” said Seifer with a grimace. “Let's go in and tell the old geezer that you'll gracefully accept his offer of support...”


	15. Pride Before a Fall

Dumbledore's help might have ulterior motives behind it, but it nevertheless proved invaluable. Furthermore, working with him was a lot less irksome and a lot more intriguing than Harry had feared.

His knowledge was both vast and deep and he obviously liked teaching immensely.

There was a lot, they knew, that he wasn't telling them; but he shared much of his own research along with what was fairly common knowledge in his world, about magic as he knew it, about this Voldemort he was so worried about and most importantly, about homunculi and the ways to destroy them.

Harry and his Guardians soaked it all up and shared some of their own knowledge in return.

Dumbledore was quite intrigued by their tales of travelling through other worlds and good-naturedly jealous of what he declared “an unparalleled chance of adventuring and discovering.”

He did not, however, share their worry about Voldemort's apparent ability to do the same. When they told him, he simply nodded thoughtfully and commented: “That does not surprise me in the least. Magic requires balance, after all, always... yes, it is quite possible...”

They were once again in his office: the large circular room, full of funny little noises and portraits of old headmasters and headmistresses pretending to snooze, was becoming their almost-daily meeting spot. They no longer sat around the enormous, claw-footed desk, but rather gathered on very comfortable (if slightly sore to the eyes) pink and yellow armchairs which Dumbledore routinely conjured by the fireplace.

All of them were getting used to these meetings, and learning to trust each other more and more.

“It is very possible that Voldemort is able to cross into other worlds _because_ you can,” said the Headmaster thoughtfully. “And equally possible that _you_ are able to because he can.”

“Equivalent exchange?” guessed Scar.

“In a way,” conceded the wizard. “Though it is more a matter of equilibrium than anything. In this vein, I would venture to state that the only worlds you can reach are those he can visit. And vice-versa.”

“You think the other homunculi are on the other worlds we visited, then?” Harry stated more than asked.

“Most likely. Yet another reason why you are uniquely suited to the task of destroying those constructs. And perhaps...”

Here, the Headmaster hesitated, but Harry was starting to understand how to go about getting the information that Dumbledore liked to cloak in layers of secrecy and half-truths.

He pierced the aged wizard with a very pointed glare and crossed his arms, making sure his indignation and anger got conveyed; though they weren't as burning as at the beginning of their acquaintance, his every muscle still radiated his determination not to let the damn wizard get away with his tendency to conceal important information.

Dumbledore's mouth twitched in a brief smile under his beard and he dipped his head in acknowledgement. Harry inwardly cheered.

“That Voldemort might be deploying his homunculi in many different worlds is not only consistent with what I know of his typical strategies, but also ties neatly into a theory I have recently had confirmed. By you, as it were.”

Harry blinked. “Me?”

Damn but the old Headmaster always managed to surprise him somehow.

Dumbledore smiled, his blue eyes twinkling madly, and Harry fought the temptation to grumble aloud. The wizard got a kick out of it, he was sure of it. No point giving him such a satisfaction.

“Allow me to remind you of your most recent battle,” said Dumbledore, leaning back in his chair. “Towards the end of your recounting, you mentioned a cup.”

“The one the homunculus spat out before dying?” asked Harry with a perplexed frown. “What about it?”

It hadn't seemed very significant at the time. Maybe it was strange that the creature had swallowed it, but then again, it hadn't seemed particular about what it ingested.

“The existence and location of that cup might well be the most important piece of information of this entire war,” said Dumbledore solemnly. Then he added: “I would like to see it.”

“Err… I'm sorry, but… we left it there, you see.”

“No, no. You misunderstand me, my Lord Summoner. All I require is your memory of seeing it.”

Harry frowned, honestly perplexed. “I already described it to you as best I could.”

Dumbledore's grin was the smug and pleased one he always gained whenever he got the chance to show off a magical trinket or other to his invariably captivated audience. Harry might have resented it if the wizard's delight wasn't so genuine… and if the trinkets weren't always so interesting!

As the Headmaster made his way to a cabinet, the Summoner followed, openly curious, and so did the Guardians, trying to appear nonchalant and disinterested.

Dumbledore took out a shallow stone basin, fitted with dull gems in odd patterns and carved with Runes and strange symbols. Harry could see a silver-white substance ebbing and swirling in it, giving off a very feeble light.

"What is it?" he asked eagerly.

“This… is called a Pensieve. I sometimes find, and I am sure you know the feeling, that I simply have too many thoughts and memories crammed into my mind."

“Are there really people that happens to?” asked Seifer in overdone amazement. Scar rolled his eyes.

“Oh, yes,” assured Dumbledore blithely. “A Pensieve is most useful in such cases. One simply siphons the excess thoughts from one's mind, pours them into the basin, and examines them at one's leisure.”

“Wait. That whitish stuff… is _thoughts_?” asked Harry in utter amazement.

“A memory, actually,” corrected Dumbledore gently. He delicately put the tip of his wand in the cloud-like substance and stirred lightly. The not-quite-liquid twirled, following the motion, and started getting slowly sucked up the wand itself.

“So many times have I struggled with a problem, only to find that reviewing an opportune memory in the Pensieve clarified the matter… seeing things from a different perspective is always helpful, would you not agree?”

The last wisps trailed after the tip as the Headmaster raised it away and plunged it into a glass phial, reversing the stirring motion to release the silvery memory into it before sealing it.

“Now, the extraction of a memory is very easy,” assured the wizard, putting the phial away in an ornate cabinet that appeared filled with similar ampoules, “and of course, it will be a mere copy: you won't lose anything, my Lord Summoner. If you would?”

“I'll do it,” interrupted Itachi in a tone that broke no argument.

“I don't think it's dangerous,” Harry felt compelled to say, a part of him very curious to try the whole thing for himself.

“Of course not!” exclaimed Dumbledore, genuinely surprised that they might think so. “A Pensieve merely allows for the sorting of thoughts or memories. It cannot affect the viewer directly!”

“Regardless,” was Itachi's only comment.

Not bothering to argue, Harry nodded his consent with a slight sigh.

Gathering his four guests around the basin, the Headmaster directed them to lean over it and before he knew what was happening, Harry was tilting forward; the whitish memory was rising up towards his face rapidly, expanding to fill his whole vision; he felt his body leave the floor and float for a brief moment, Itachi and Scar comforting presences on his two sides, before he was falling head first into a whirl of colour and shadow.

He felt his feet hit solid ground, and stood, shaking, as the blurred shapes around him came suddenly into focus. His Guardians were looking around in amazement; Dumbledore was smiling genially.

He knew immediately where they were: he'd been there mere days before, hiding behind that… wheel… he gasped: they were there!

His eyes went wide with shock. When the Headmaster had talked of viewing a memory, he'd imagined something like a Sphere… a video recording of sorts, so to speak, most likely from Itachi's point of view; or else, something like a visit to the Farplane, where pyreflies could form a ghostlike image of an evoked memory. He did not expect to be plunged in the actual moment, much less to see himself from the outside!

Yet there they were, Itachi and him – his Guardian just now raising a thin water-wall to protect the two of them where they were taking shelter and him… well. Harry shook his head in amazement.

That was utterly, utterly strange.

He knew what he looked like, he'd seen himself in mirrors and the like, but seeing himself at a distance, he managed to be surprised nonetheless. How grippingly odd. He gave himself a critical once-over. Messy black hair, burnt orange goggles, blue clothes dotted with this-and-that, his Rod by his side, satchels he was drawing bomb after bomb from…

“We are completely insubstantial, of course.” Dumbledore's voice startled him out of his fascinated contemplation of himself and he turned to pay attention to the Headmaster's explanations.

They watched as the homunculus kept stubbornly attacking and being blown up over and over, exactly as it had when it happened – obviously.

Not being distracted by having to fight, Harry had leisure to take in all of the things he'd missed while he lived this moment; the level of detail displayed was astounding and he wondered if his stoic friend was always this capable of meticulous recollection. Or had Itachi been using his Sharingan? Was that why he could remember everything in such precise detail? He well knew that the shinobi viewed his family's peculiar ability as a powerful tool and a curse at once, and that he kept using it far too much, ignoring the health issues it gave him...

Seifer was moving around, poking at things with his gunblade – ineffectually. They were little more than phantoms here, incapable of interacting with the memory being displayed all around them. The whole scene was at once more real than anything the pyreflies could make, yet lacking even the partial substance of memories evoked in the Farplane. Harry was wide-eyed with wonder.

Dumbledore's commentary ran out after a while and they simply watched the battle… until the moment when the homunculus started coughing and choking.

When the eerie scream tore the air and the black ooze puffed out of the cup, Dumbledore's face could not conceal his utter triumph. He did not offer an explanation, however, and merely guided them out into the real world again.

Harry shuddered as he regained his footing, but a small part of him was cheering and eager to repeat the experience. It was better than the Sphere Theatre in Luca!

His Guardians, sadly, did not share his enthusiasm. Not being able to interact with their surroundings had apparently rattled them a bit: helplessness never sat well with them, and it didn't matter that they weren't in any danger inside a memory, they still didn't like it.

Even the unflappable Itachi was uncomfortable with it. (“Mindscapes are dangerous,” he would confess later, when he and Harry were alone. “If I must be in one, I'd much rather be in control.”)

It did not bode well for his chances of enjoying the Pensieve again, but Harry firmly told himself that pouting was childish. There were more pressing matters at hand, in any case.

“What is the significance of the cup?” he asked as soon as they were all out into Dumbledore's office once more.

“That, my Lord Summoner, is in fact a magical cup created by one of the founders of this very school, Helga Hufflepuff. Did you notice the badger engraved on the side? That is, to this day, the mascot of her House. The value of such an artefact is, of course, immense, even though it is unknown what magical properties it might have been gifted with by its creator, a notion lost to time.”

Harry glared. “Yes, yes. And?” he demanded pointedly.

Dumbledore gave him an innocent look; the Summoner ratcheted up his glare.

Heaving a very put upon sigh, Seifer took up the slack and sing-songed: “Why is a piece of wrought gold, no matter how pretty or historically significant, so terribly important to your war effort?”

Dumbledore nodded calmly, a teacher acknowledging a student's question, and sealed Itachi's memory in a phial of its own before taking out the memory he'd put away earlier: “I believe this might help shed some light on the matter.”

Rolling their eyes discreetly, the four bent once more over the Pensieve, Harry decidedly more eager than his far too tense friends.

This time they landed in a dark, vast room, a ballroom perhaps, given the polished hardwood flooring and high ceiling, lost in shadows above them. Flickering light came from candles floating in mid-air, like haphazard chandeliers.

People in black robes were arranged in a big circle, two rows deep, leaving a wide circular area in the middle; at one point the circle was interrupted by a majestic throne, upon which was curled a huge, dozing snake.

Each robed person was hiding behind a white mask, except a tall, handsome man who stood before the throne. He had shoulder-length black hair, marble pale skin and cruel eyes. His charisma was palpable, a blaze of wilful power.

“Do you see it?” asked Dumbledore, motioning to the far side of the throne.

The cup was indeed there, in pride of place on a tall and graceful side table, looking pretty even in the dim lightning. Its few jewels gleamed now and then.

Harry however barely spared it a glance, because he was rather distracted by the vicious fight taking place in the middle of the ballroom. The circle of robed figures formed a makeshift arena where the fat homunculus Itachi and he had destroyed was facing off four masked wizards.

Their frantic efforts didn't look too effective. Their magic might slash and pierce, cut and burn, but it was no match for the regenerative power of the homunculus; and their fear was making them falter.

One of them lost control of his flickering shield and before he could raise another in its place, he was dead; part of him fell bleeding to the floor while the homunculus munched on the rest.

Another broke down and tried to run away, screaming. A lazy wave of the handsome man's wand trapped him in mid-flight and kept him still despite his struggles while the homunculus slowly devoured him.

The slightly echoing quality of the sounds in the vast space made his cries of terror and pain much worse.

“Is that him?” asked Itachi quietly, calm eyes taking in the powerful figure by the throne, whose calculating enjoyment of the massacre was evident. “Voldemort?”

“Indeed,” confirmed Dumbledore.

“Whose memory is this?” asked Scar.

The Headmaster's eyes darted to the side, to one of the masked figures, as anonymous and as impassive as all the others. “Someone I trust,” was all he would say.

The homunculus was now tearing through his remaining opponents with rapacious glee, relentless under the barrage of hexes they were pelting it with; strengthened with the force of their desperation, the curses were dark and vicious and savage: to no avail.

Every witness in the circle was staring in silent horror; terrified of attracting attention, be it from the voracious creature busy tearing their comrades apart… or from their leader. Fear and awe for the cruel Lord were so strong Harry could almost taste them.

The last, brutal death was cheered wildly by a solitary voice.

As one, the visitors in the memory turned to seek its source and were confronted by a tall, good-looking man, incongruously dressed in black jeans and a fur-lined, sleeveless leather jacket. The fact that he was wearing sunglasses in such a darkened room was as jarring as his crass laughter. Black bracelets were clasped around his wrists and a red ouroboros mark was tattooed on the back of his hand.

At his side was the woman-like homunculus they had faced underneath Deling City, as lethally beautiful as they remembered her.

Once he spotted them, Harry wondered why they hadn't stood out from the start, because they were as unlike the rest of the audience as possible; not to mention, every other present was giving them a wide berth, the closest members of the circle projecting utter disdain towards the two homunculi.

“Now that was a good show!” cried the homunculus wearing sunglasses. He laughed again, a full belly laugh, throwing back his head of spiky black hair. “Do it again, oh great Lord! Not like you haven't enough wizards to throw away, after all...” He snickered.

Restlessness in the robed men betrayed their fear that their Lord might well take him up on the suggestion, but Voldemort merely sneered.

“Shut up, Greed,” said the woman by the homunculus' side, without even looking at him.

“I just want some more entertainment!” he protested, watching the fat homunculus shake blood off himself and lick his few wounds, red coursing energy busy fixing him up.

“You are too greedy for your own good,” said his companion softly.

“Nothing wrong with greed!” he boasted loudly. “Everyone wants something they don't have… money, power, what have you! Me, I just want – everything. I demand the finer things in life! And right now, I want to watch another of these fights!"

“Whatever,” she sighed, scornful.

“I just--” he started.

“Silence!”

Voldemort's command sliced the air like a whip, effortlessly regaining everybody's focused attention.

“The fight was not for your amusement, _creature_. It was… an object lesson.”

He contemplated coolly the broken remains of the wizards that had just been killed and devoured.

“Some fools never learn,” he said with a sneer. “Such a pity.”

Silence reigned for a long moment, broken only by the chuckles of the three homunculi. All of the wizards' attention was firmly centred on their leader: they hung on his every movement with breathless anticipation, equal parts terror and yearning.

“I confess myself... disappointed.” Voldemort's voice was a deadly hiss, the grace of his movements a threat in itself. “After all this time… after all I've done… there are still those who doubt me. Who question my power.”

The dark-clothed men shifted and fidgeted. Fear was palpable in the air.

“But no matter, no matter...”

Voldemort paced slowly, and every eye was riveted on him.

“I hardly expect any of you to understand the true depths of my power… the price I've paid, the rewards I've earned... I, who have experimented, who have pushed the boundaries of magic further, perhaps, than they have ever been pushed...”

He walked back to the side table and picked up the cup daintily. His snake rose from the throne, hissing and swaying, and wrapped itself lightly around him.

“What is he nattering on about?” grumbled Seifer, who'd taken an instant dislike to the drama queen with the snake.

“Come here!” Voldemort ordered imperiously, snapping his fingers as if to a servant. All three homunculi moved unhurriedly towards him.

The fat one didn't look like he understood much of what was going on; the taller man, Greed, looked amused and stretched his arms up in a satisfied way before slipping his hands in his pockets. The woman was the most composed: she moved confidently, casually smirking at the naked covetousness in many eyes raking her form.

“Unparalleled resilience. Astonishing regenerative properties. Incredible longevity,” he mused aloud. “These characteristics make you an invaluable asset in my arsenal.”

He wasn't even looking at them: clearly they were nothing but tools in his eyes; all his attention was for the graceful cup he was caressing covetously.

“You will be the keeper of one of my greatest accomplishment to date!” proclaimed Voldemort grandly, holding the cup up.

Obviously well-trained, the masked men lifted subdued cheers. One voice alone rose outside the chorus, a woman's, from the robed figure closest to the throne, whose mane of thick, shining dark hair cascaded around her bone-white mask alluringly.

“My Lord!” she called, reverent. He turned to her sharply and she wavered, breathless under his attention. “Allow us… there is no need for such inferior creatures… we can help you instead...”

“I do not need your help!” he snapped.

“Does he truly plan to entrust the cup to that… thing?” asked Scar with some incredulity. “Is he mad?”

The seductive homunculus chuckled; she tossed her hair back and ran her eyes over the masked woman, openly derisive. “Such devotion, such dedication!” she mocked, sardonic. “So touching… so pathetic!”

It earned her a snarl from the dark-haired witch, but she just laughed: "You humans are such sad and weak, foolish creatures," she taunted. “I look forward to the day when those eyes of yours will be wide with agony!”

“Lust. Enough,” ordered Voldemort tersely.

The homunculus – who was apparently called Lust – shrugged provocatively, making sure to display her body to the maximum advantage, but subsided.

“My Lord, I merely want to serve you,” begged the masked woman, a hand outstretched in supplication.

Voldemort ignored her and held out the cup to the fat homunculus with a grandiose gesture. It was almost intercepted by Greed, who made a grabby motion for it, a smart remark already on his lips, but Voldemort hexed him casually, throwing him back a few steps in a flurry of scorching flames.

“Aw, man, come on!” cried the homunculus, rolling to put out the flames and pouting over his ruined clothes. Nobody paid him any attention.

With a flick of his wrist, Voldemort threw the cup into the air; the fat homunculus jumped like a trained dog and swallowed it whole, licking its lips with a contented hum. The ouroborous tattooed on his unnaturaly long tongue shined with saliva.

“Nice one, Gluttony,” commented Lust insouciantly.

Murmurs rippled through the circle of wizards. It was clear that the robed men were unhappy, but they didn't dare speak up.

Except one.

The masked witch cried out in protest: “My Lord! Such a treasure… are you certain...”

Voldemort rounded on her with the speed of a lethal snake striking unwary prey. “Certain? Certain?!” he hissed. “Do you doubt me, then? Even you, Bellatrix?”

A red gleam burned in his dark eyes.

“Never, my Lord!” she cried earnestly, stumbling back.

While the dark-haired woman yelled out vehement denials and begging requests, which quickly morphed to screams under her master's wand, Harry winced but did his best to tune her out and turned to Dumbledore: “That makes no sense!” he protested. “He just… gah!”

He looked at his Guardians for some sort of answer, but they were all impassive. He crossed his arms around his Rod peevishly.

“You put historically significant art pieces on display,” he half-ranted. “You put valuable treasures in bank vaults. You don't... feed them to alchemical constructs!” He rounded on Dumbledore again: “And why do it so… so – publicly?”

The Headmaster sighed deeply. “It is my opinion that Voldemort was attempting to protect the cup.”

“But why is it so important?” asked Harry in mounting frustration.

“Wouldn't wards and such be a smarter option?” inquired Seifer at the same time. “Or, you know, a safe.”

But Voldemort was unknowingly answering his question.

“Wards can be torn. Enchantments can fail,” he was saying grandly, once more pacing before his masked servants. “Trust can be... misplaced.” A shudder went throw the wizards at the lethal glare the Dark Lord threw around. “But this… creation, shall keep my treasure safe forever more.”

A satisfied smirk touched his thin lips. “And if anyone should covet what is rightfully mine…” he whispered, his voice carrying despite its low volume, “let it be known what they must face!” he finished with a yell, sudden light pouring out of nowhere onto the bleeding remains of the unfortunates who had faced Gluttony.

“Ah! Intimidation,” commented Itachi with a slight nod.

“What if you should wish to retrieve it?” blurted out a bold soul, immediately cringing at his own daring.

“So you do not think me able to control a mere alchemical construct?” Voldemort mused in a terrifyingly amused voice.

The masked wizard fell over himself to deny the accusation and assure his Lord of his unwavering faith, but Voldemort ignored his panicked efforts.

Greed, who was still on the floor in a lazy, arrogant sprawl, snickered loudly: “God, they're pathetic. Sure you can't do better than then, oh great and mighty Lord?”

Faster than eye could follow, Voldemort swivelled and thrust his wand out, then again. The spiky haired homunculus was jerked to his feet, staggered under an invisible blow and shouted out, surprised. A third curse hit, shattering his right arm, and his cry turned into one of rage.

In a heartbeat, black spread all over his body, like solid ink bleeding over his skin, turning it into hardened carbon, strengthening it to unbelievable levels. He snarled, his face contorted in fury, no trace of the muscled man he'd appeared as left: he resembled nothing so much as a black-skinned, malevolent demon.

“Ha! I won't be killed so easily!” he snarled. He lunged at the Dark Lord, but was violently repelled by a shield. “Bring it on, ugly! The Ultimate Shield protects me from everything!” he shouted.

The cry was still echoing around them when Voldemort thrust his wand forward again, a bluish white curse shooting straight at Greed. It struck him right in the chest, and the homunculus burst into small pieces, his fabled shield and his body disintegrating at once in a long moment.

“I believe this shall suffice,” said Dumbledore gravely, gently taking Harry's arm and guiding him out of the memory.

As the rush of colours and sounds accompanied their exit from the Pensieve, Harry caught a glimpse of Lust's horrified face, and of a red spell racing towards someone; the echoes of pained cries followed him out, soaring back into the present with him.

He shuddered. That Voldemort was even worse live than in his nightmares.

“So he can destroy homunculi too?” wondered Scar.

“It was quite disturbing to witness, the first time,” admitted Dumbledore. “I have yet to discern what Dark Arts he is using, but there is no doubt that he is effective. Then again, Lord Voldemort's knowledge of the seedier magics has no equals.”

“Hn.”

“I still don't understand,” admitted Harry. “What _is_ that cup?”

Dumbledore sighed deeply. “A Horcrux,” he said flatly. He met their curious gazes with weary eyes: “It is the word used for an object in which a person has concealed part of their soul.”

A shiver ran down Harry's back. He felt strangely cold and pulled his cloak on, drawing it tighter around himself before taking a seat.

“I don't like where this is going,” said Seifer darkly.

“It is… a safeguard,” went on Dumbledore. “The soul is split by an act of unforgivable evil, and a part of it is hidden in an object outside the body. Thus, even if one’s body is attacked or destroyed, one cannot die, for part of the soul remains earthbound and undamaged.”

“Immortality again,” grumbled Scar in disgust.

“Yes, immortality,” agreed Dumbledore tiredly. “But in such a form as to make death preferable to all but very few.”

“Because who would want to live with a torn soul?” said Harry sombrely. “That's _foul_.”

Dumbledore simply nodded.

“How would you even...” started Harry, then thought better of it: “No, wait. I don't want to know.”

“I have heard of such things before,” murmured Itachi, sounding slightly disturbed. “Deals with the Death God, or with demons, forbidden techniques… I witnessed the Soul-Body Separation Technique myself… and there were rumours about the Uzumaki Clan using portions of their own souls to draw on the power of the Shinigami...” He shook his head weakly. “And immortality, well. It was a goal for many in my world.”

“In any world,” corrected Scar darkly. He leaned back in his armchair and scowled ferociously: “Souls anchored to non-living bodies, trapped in Blood Runes – oh, yes, I've seen these horrors too. But actually cutting a soul in pieces? That's new.” His disgust was clear.

“Why couldn’t this Voldemort make a philosopher's stone, or steal one, if he was so interested in immortality?” bust out Harry. “As horrible as that is, it's still better than tearing his own soul apart!”

“I could answer that, I think; I know enough of the man Voldemort is to understand why a philosopher's stone would not be attractive to him,” said Dumbledore, eyes uncharacteristically dull. “But does it really matter? He has chosen to pursue immortality through the creation of Horcruxes. That, is fact.”

“It does not speak in favour of his sanity,” commented Itachi, “the price of such deals is always horrifically high.”

“And you are certain…?” Harry half-asked.

“Oh, yes.” Dumbledore nodded. “I had my first suspicions when the curse he used against you rebounded: it diminished him, but did not kill him. How was that possible? I did not want to believe, of course, but what else made sense of all the facts? Then,” he sighed, “something horrendous happened and I received what I considered certain proof that Voldemort had split his soul.”

He swallowed convulsively before explaining: “Four years ago, a child under my care disappeared. We found out later that she had been taken over by a Dark Artefact – a diary: a remnant of the time when Lord Voldemort had been Tom Riddle, a student here at Hogwarts. The diary was enchanted to possess whoever wrote into it, like the poor child did, and force them to unleash an ancient horror into the school… a basilisk, if you are familiar with such a creature?”

Harry was. The reptilian creatures weren't entirely uncommon on Spira and rightly feared for their ability to Petrify with their stare. He didn't like the idea of one running amok in a school.

“What happened?” he asked with dread.

The Headmaster looked very old when he admitted: “It was, in the end, the girl's thirteen-years-old brother, Ronald, who found her, about to access an area of the school that had long been forgotten. When he confronted her, she lost consciousness and he was faced with a ghostly shadow of Tom Riddle who attempted to drain her of the last of her life and magic.”

Dumbledore paused for a moment in sorrow, then continued: “Tom Riddle told Ronald that he was a memory, left in the diary to wait for the opportune moment; he boasted of his accomplishment and tried to show off his control of the monster with which he was terrorizing Hogwarts.”

Summoner and Guardians grimaced contemptuously.

“Young Ronald, showing remarkable strategic thinking for his age, was able to destroy the diary by levitating it directly into the mouth of the basilisk,” went on Dumbledore. “Basilisk venom is the most potent poison known in this world and was quite sufficient to destroy it. It was also quite sufficient to almost kill Ronald, who was only saved by the intervention of my friend Fawkes.”

He motioned to the gorgeous, swan-size fire bird perched nearby, who trilled a fierce comment, then sang a long, pure note. They all relaxed, quite unconsciously.

Dumbledore smiled slightly: “Fascinating creatures, phoenixes. They can carry immensely heavy loads, their tears have extraordinary healing properties and their loyalty is unparalleled.”

“What of the girl?” asked Harry in a grieved whisper.

Dumbledore regarded him sadly: “She survived, barely, but she will never be the same. The Horcrux had her in its grip for ten long months. Her very soul was tainted, her magic drained and her mind… she is in St. Mungo's still – our hospital. It is unlikely that she will ever live a normal life, despite the efforts of her loving family. If she had broken free, perhaps, or if the diary had targeted more than just her, spreading its influence and thus weakening it, but alas! It was not the case.”

Dumbledore tented his fingers before his face, regarding them through his half-moon lenses. “This tragedy confirmed all of my fears. I did not see the effect of Tom Riddle's diary myself, but poor Ginevra's condition and what Ronald described, disturbed me greatly. A mere memory acting and thinking for itself? Sapping the life out of the girl into whose hands it had fallen? Unheard of. No, something much more sinister had lived inside that book.”

“A fragment of soul,” murmured Harry, feeling sick.

Seifer, from where he was sprawled in his armchair, commented, without lowering the gaze he was pinning the ceiling with: “Bit careless, though, wasn't it? Throwing it around like that? Didn't you say the point of a Horcrux is to keep part of the self hidden and safe? It's obvious that he intended the diary to be planted on some hapless child from the start, but what's the sense in that? I wouldn't go around flinging a piece of my _soul_ at people like that. What if it gets destroyed?”

“As indeed happened: that particular fragment of soul is no more; Ronald saw to that.”

“Careless,” reiterated Seifer.

Dumbledore agreed: “Yes. It intrigued and alarmed me that that diary had been intended as a weapon as much as a safeguard. Voldemort was being remarkably blasé about that precious fragment of his soul concealed within it.”

Harry frowned darkly. It seemed to him, this Voldemort didn't exactly value much of anything as precious. Not even his own soul. He hugged himself, deeply disturbed. Souls were meant to be whole, protected. Even the forbidden techniques and foul experiments he'd heard of in his travels went so far as _using_ souls, but didn't dare tearing them apart. Splitting one's own soul was a violation he had a hard time digesting.

Itachi interjected calmly: “We saw that Voldemort created more than one Horcrux. Perhaps he was confident that one of them could be repurposed without endangering him.”

Harry straightened, alarmed: “More than… oh, of course. The cup,” he breathed, finally understanding.

“Wait… you're saying he's torn his own soul apart multiple times?!” cried Seifer. “Issues, I tell you. A number of them!”

“You have seen it yourselves. More importantly, you've seen the soul fragment that was anchored to it – the black oozing cloud that screamed as you destroyed it.”

“How many others?” asked Harry, feeling sick.

“I do not know for certain.”

Itachi countered at once: “That's not good enough, Headmaster.”

Dumbledore paused for a moment, marshalling his thoughts, and then said: “Very well. I am convinced it must be more than a few. Lord Voldemort has seemed to grow less human with the passing years, and the transformation he has undergone seemed to me to be only explicable if his soul was mutilated beyond the realms of what we might call ‘usual evil’.”

“He looked perfectly human to me,” said Scar.

The Headmaster shook his head: “He is, now; but during the first war… The more involved in the Dark Arts he became, the less he resembled the handsome student that had charmed so many in his youth. His features became waxy and reptilian, his frame skeletally thin, his skin as pale as snow. The whites of his eyes took on a perpetually blood-shot look.” He grimaced: “The first time I saw him again, years after he had graduated and disappeared, I knew at a glance that he had delved into the Dark Arts more than anyone should dare. I know not how he regained his good looks, but it is not unreasonable to expect he's found a way in some other world he has visited.”

They nodded thoughtfully.

Itachi wasn't going to be deterred from his line of questioning, however. “How many?” he asked again.

With a put upon sigh, Dumbledore conceded: “Seven is a magically significant number, indeed, in the eyes of many, it is the most powerful number. Voldemort was always one for portents and symbols; so, six is my best guess. The seventh part of his soul, however maimed, resides of course inside his regenerated body. That was the part of him that lived a spectral existence for so many years during his exile; without that, he has no self at all.”

“Do you know where they are?” asked Itachi, ever practical.

“I have been attempting to locate them, but with not as much luck as I could hope. I am sure you can appreciate the magnitude of the problem,” said Dumbledore calmly. “Especially since I can only guess what objects he might have chosen.”

“Guess?” asked Seifer sharply. “Based on what?”

“My own observations,” replied Dumbledore. “What he was like as a boy, what I have seen or heard of him as a man. If man is still a term that could describe him.”

He leaned back in his armchair and listed thoughtfully: “He always liked to collect treasures. Mementoes, of his foes, of his triumphs and the like. Small things at first, but I rather expect he would prefer objects that, in themselves, have a certain grandeur for his Horcruxes. I have therefore trawled back through Voldemort’s past to see if I can find evidence that such artefacts have disappeared around him.”

They all nodded in understanding.

“If you were to find yourselves in the position of destroying them, I trust you will take the chance,” added Dumbledore calmly.

“Do you have any pictures of the probable receptacles? It would do us little good to find them, if we cannot recognize them,” pointed out Itachi.

“I will show you what memories I have collected. I know you intend to concentrate on hunting the homunculi...” He trailed off, as if expecting – hoping, maybe – that they would contradict him.

Harry merely nodded, however.

“As disturbing as Voldemort's actions are, there isn't much we can do about it, except by chance, like with the cup. And I find stopping the homunculi is a sufficiently problematic task, considering they could be anywhere in more than one world!”

Dumbledore stifled a sigh, looked disappointed, but resigned, and went on: “...but perhaps you will indeed have another chance at destroying Voldemort's soul fragments. In the meanwhile, I shall continue to investigate other avenues.”

“Do you think he's entrusted them to the other homunculi?” asked Harry interestedly.

The Headmaster frowned in thought. “I would not say so, no,” he said slowly. “But I would not have expected him to entrust Hufflepuff's Cup to a homunculus either. I rather expected him to have chosen complex curses and other magical protections for his Horcruxes. I might well be wrong.”

He shook his head: “I cannot say what you will face. I do ask that you share the memories of your encounters with any homunculi. Just in case.”

Harry nodded.

“If we even find them,” muttered Scar, getting up and pacing around his armchair a little.

“Yeah, sadly, no-one's come up with a good interworld find-a-missing-person service,” joked Seifer with a light smirk.

“And even if we discover where they are, we might not be able to reach them,” went on Scar, ignoring his fellow Guardian with aplomb. “It's not like we have any control on where we can go.”

“Ah, now. That, I can help with,” said Dumbledore much more cheerfully.

Four pairs of eyes turned to him.

“Indeed, it is a problem well within our skill to fix,” the wizard declared with a twinkle in his eyes. “After all, it is merely a matter of properly recreating the conditions for a passage to form. Magic, I assure you, can help with that.”

Harry was intrigued at once. “Wait, you're saying that we can _open_ a Window?”

So far, they had made some small efforts to try and locate the elusive passages, but the truly random nature of the openings and their own limited experience with world-crossing meant they had little control on their travels. And the hit-and-miss feeling wasn't confined to the source world, of course: where, exactly, they would wind up was never clear beforehand.

Mostly, they'd just relied on the Rod to guide them… and on luck to be on their side.

Dumbledore, however, was confident that they could create their own passageway between worlds rather than just hope to stumble into an existing one. The very idea had rather boggled Harry's mind, but he felt undeniably excited by the prospect.

“How do you suggest we choose where to go?” asked Scar with interest.

Harry twirled his Rod hesitantly, not willing to volunteer it when he wasn't entirely sure it could help much, but again, it was Dumbledore who had the answer.

A rather complicated answer, in truth, because locating and tracking charms were, he explained, a class of their own and quite complex in both nature and execution, even for the simplest of searches; expanding their scope to changeable or not well-defined targets, or to multiple objects, or to a very wide area, increased the difficulty noticeably. Doing all three at once required an insane amount of arithmantic calculations – a topic new to all of them and rather gruesomely obscure at times, but, Harry came to admit, fascinating.

Summoner and Guardians alike hung on his every word as the Headmaster described the theory behind the web of interlocking charms he intended to build to, at once, expand the searching area beyond the literal limits of the world and try to avoid wasting time on hoaxes and mistakes.

It was extremely complicated, and just shy of impossible.

In a word, _interesting._

It took time, of course. Luckily, Hogwarts was a wondrous place and the weeks of research passed pleasantly indeed.

The four friends found the grounds lovely, whether they were in the mood for exploring, sparring, or simply whiling away the days by the lake; if the weather turned rainy, the maze of passages, rooms and stairs kept them happily occupied.

Harry and Seifer spent hours chatting with the portraits, absolutely fascinated by their very existence (not to mention their riveting stories); the Library was a dream come true for Itachi, who would be found there whenever he wasn't by his Summoner's side – at times, Harry joined him there, curious about the versatile, multifaceted magic of this world; Scar developed a completely unexpected interest in the greenhouses (a concept he was unfamiliar with), which flattered the friendly Herbology professor immensely.

As the weather turned warmer, most teachers continued to be slightly annoying, whispering and gossiping behind their back in a frustrating mixture of excitement and wariness (and the dark and brooding one had a few unpleasant encounters with the Guardians before he gave up skulking and attempting to spy on them and restricted himself to glaring) and most students went on giggling and peering as the Guardians passed by, sighing dreamily or trying to show off (then being scolded fiercely by the school nurse for attempting to emulate the Guardians and getting nothing but bruises for their troubles); but upon the whole, the Summoner and his friends were left mostly alone and the truly delicious food made dinners in the Great Hall a tolerable affair after all.

It also helped that there was no tension left between them and Dumbledore. The unspoken truce they seemed to have reached – Harry cooperating with the Headmaster's efforts to destroy the Horcruxes, the wizard giving up on him taking an open role in the war – suited them all, perhaps not perfectly, but well enough.

Longer afternoons and sweetly scented nights heralded the arrival of summer, and the students started sorting themselves out for the end of the school year; Seifer felt unaccountably nostalgic, reminded of the rhythm of life at Garden.

Once summer came in full, and the students were sent home, and the castle quieted in a somnolent peace of empty buildings waiting to be filled again, Dumbledore and his teachers joined forces on the dimensional crossing project, some more excited than others at the odd research opportunity.

The aged Headmaster had, after long consideration, been forced to admit that the power requirements to keep a Window open once formed were beyond daunting: no man could wield that much power and, he explained chagrined, resorting to a coven would just be multiplying exponentially the risk of errors in the very careful settings.

Sensibly, Harry pointed out that the Aeons' support to a Summoner was precisely for such eventualities.

The wizard was stunned for only a long moment before beaming happily and going back to the challenging project with renewed enthusiasm.

Locating of homunculi was even more fiddly, and progress was slow, but the Summoner and his Guardians weren't tired of this world yet.

They visited Fred and George regularly.

The two red-heads were forever busy with their shop and their experiments and the flurry of inventions that brightened their lives like a long, colourful fireworks show. Nevertheless, they had made it their mission to show Harry around their world, or at least, Diagon Alley.

Several afternoons saw the twins – who, despite their irreverent nature, were well-respected businessmen in the Alley – introduce the Lord Summoner around to their neighbours and fellow shopkeepers.

Be it charming Madam Primpernelle into selling him some of her Beautifying Potions (which Harry felt would be an instant hit in every world) or convincing him to try yet another odd candy with surprising effects, finally tasting the intriguing Bubble Ice-cream, or even just glancing amusedly around the secondhand robe shop (which he knew O'aka would be enthusiastic about if he could see it: clothes were an easy sell almost everywhere, after all), Fred and George were delighted to be his guides.

Seifer spent half those afternoons cursing and raging because of some prank the twins pulled on him, and the rest pranking them back, much to Harry's amusement. Scar groaned and muttered, but trailed after the younger ones anyway, occasionally slanting a glare at an invariably impassive Itachi. He just knew the ninja was amused, no matter what his blank face showed (or didn't show)!

Harry loved every minute of it.

His relationship with the twins was peculiar, he reflected. They felt almost as close to him as his Guardians, and yet not, because they instinctively distanced themselves from the connection that hovered between them, preventing its formation. They could have been his, but spontaneously chose to stay in their own lives instead.

He was fairly certain that they didn't even notice: it was visceral on their part, a dismissal that was less of a rejection and more of a testament to the strength of their affections in this world.

Not that he blamed them; the bond to a Summoner demanded all of a Guardian and it was obvious that the two wizards were too close to their family for such a commitment. They met the twins' warm-hearted parents and a few of their brothers over a meal at the Leaky Cauldron once and Harry felt their love for each other keenly, a beautiful strength unmarred even by the deep underlying grief they shared, which he didn't have the courage to inquire about. He would never want to put himself in the way of such love.

Still, it made his heart ache the tiniest bit, even though he was determined to be happy with their free-and-easy friendship.

On rare occasions, Fred and George would join the four of them in Hogwarts instead, entertaining them with tall tales of their years as King Pranksters of the school; the Guardians easily included the two in their training sessions, honing the wizards' battle skills both in close quarter (unused classrooms proving excellent practice grounds) and long range (in the beautiful meadows by the Forbidden Forest, which was a much better option than having to brave the Forest itself, to avoid an audience of starry-eyed or giggling teenagers).

Relaxing evenings by the Hogwarts lake became a cherished moment for Summoner and Guardians; but they were always alert: Dumbledore had warned them that attempting to synch the timeflows between worlds was simply out of the question and they would just have to go at whatever time the Windows could be formed.

Thus was that when, one slightly rainy night, the wizards called for Harry to stabilize a passageway they'd managed to open truly close to where the location spells indicated the presence of a homunculus, the four of them snatched the chance.

And true to their luck, arrived in the middle of a war.

Scar, who only needed a fraction of a second to recognize a place he was, lamentably, very familiar with, was beyond surprised. Yet there could be no doubt: the rigid lines of tall buildings and straight streets, and the vivid greyness of concrete walls, were simply too distinctive. This was Central.

He was perplexed, though. He'd lived (and hunted) here and it was never the quietest spot, what with petty criminals, underground gangs and the like; but now there were soldiers running and shouting everywhere, sounds of shooting and explosions, yells and rumbles and frantic scrambling everywhere.

What could have possibly happened to plunge Central into such chaos?

People were scurrying all over, the rattling of machine guns and the booming explosions of combat Alchemists at work filled the air; there was fighting in and out many of the buildings, ravaged holes in the middle of the streets, crumbling walls and broken windows; here and there, overturned trucks and cars, and fires licking edifices and darting from rubbish heaps to furniture in rooms.

It was clear that the heart of Amestris was in the middle of an uprising.

Well. Good for them.

The white-haired Guardian wasted no time in appraising his friends of the likely situation they were in and the others' first reaction was, predictably, to back off. This was not a place they wanted their Summoner in and what was to be gained by a foray into someone else's battle anyway?

Harry, also predictably, had other ideas. The location spell was still active – what was the point of it, if they would just give up at the first sign of trouble? They were going to be in danger everywhere they went, in any case. Besides, as reluctant as he admittedly was to step into the fighting, his Rod was vibrating eagerly into his hands: there was something here they needed.

Affecting to ignore his friends' grumbling, he started leading them away from the Window; trading exasperated glares, the Guardians could only follow their stubborn Summoner.

Scar took over leading them, choosing the back routes and hidden ways he knew all too well and muttering curses all the way; an unhappy Itachi and a reluctantly amused Seifer took care of keeping the fighters well away.

Fortunately, as they made their way to wherever the Rod was leading them, the noises and confusion seemed to die down more and more. Unfortunately, alleys and dark spots also seemed to dwindle, as they moved into a well-off neighbourhood which had Scar growing ever more tense.

Finally, Harry pointed to what was clearly a posh, wealthy someone’s estate. Some officer of very high rank, reasoned Scar... if not the Führer himself.

He valiantly refrained from cursing aloud.

Thankfully most of the fighting seemed to be going on elsewhere (the Central command, Scar guessed) so it was more easy than expected to get in.

The building was a veritable palace: the corridors were filled with priceless antiques artfully disposed at regular intervals, velvety red curtains framed huge windows and lush red carpeting softened their footsteps. Mahogany doors were closed on a number of rooms.

One small service door was half open however and voices filled with contained fury drifted indistinctly up from what they guessed was the basement, attracting their attention.

It was a matter of minutes to climb down the narrow stairs to a darkened underground story with bare walls and cold rooms: where they found themselves unintentional witnesses to a surprising scene.

Two people stood facing each other under flickering neon lights, with all the latent hostility and coiled violence of two gladiators in an arena.

They were both extremely controlled and even though their reciprocal loathing was clear, they did not show it in any blatant way. In fact, they seemed to possess the surprising ability of telegraphing a high level of tension without expressing much emotion at all.

Almost without thought, Itachi wove a Camouflage Technique around them, playing with chakra inflections to hide their presence, and they set to observe the two.

One was an older man with a personable physique, in excellent shape for his age, clad in the blue, full length coat and slacks of the local military, complete with a sword in a sober scabbard hanging by his side. He had a full head of black hair and a thick black moustache, but what caught the eye the most was the eye patch covering his left orb, a solid-looking piece, as black and as shiny as his polished dress shoes, that seemed to dominate his big, square face. As if by contrast, his right eye was smallish, but with a dangerously glinting blue tint.

“Führer Bradley,” whispered Scar, loathing evident even in his barely audible voice.

His adversary was a handsome younger man with dark, piercing eyes and a clean-shaven, baby-faced visage. His dark hair was worn casually unkempt, falling over his eyes, but in spite of this irregularity, he, too, was wearing the Amestris uniform and it was both pristine and completed by white formal-wear gloves.

“Colonel Roy Mustang, the Flame Alchemist,” murmured Scar, recognizing him at once. “An honourable man,” he added reluctantly. Mustang was still an Alchemist, but after all he'd gone through, the Ishvalan could no longer bring himself to denigrate him.

Harry nodded absently and focused on the edged exchange between the two.

“...lecturing me about betrayal,” was saying the Flame Alchemist with barely leashed fury.

In contrast, the Führer's tone was light, as if he was just bantering. “Are you referring to the fact that I am... a homunculus?”

The man uncovered his eye, theatrically: a red ouroboros shone for a moment unnaturally, stark against the white eyeball. Outside the little room, Harry and his Guardians couldn't help a soft gasp of shock.

Mustang started, but recovered quickly: “Whether or not you can call yourself a human being is a non-issue as far as I'm concerned, Bradley,” he spat haughtily.

Hands clenched around weapons, tension ratcheting up among the Guardians; Harry felt like fidgeting, but held himself still, wary of attracting attention.

“Then what's the problem?” asked the homunculus in a jarringly pleasant tone. “Ever since I've become Führer I've done nothing but improve this country by winning wars, purifying our population and exponentially expanding our territory.”

In the dark corridor, Harry grimaced in disgust and Scar and Seifer hissed silently, fuming. The tone was so very reasonable, even amiable, but what he was saying…!

Evidently, the Flame Alchemist agreed: “You couldn't care less for this state,” he retorted angrily. “All you wanted was the philosopher's stone. You started those wars because you knew people pushed into despair by war tend to seek refuge in the stone,” accused the Colonel, making Scar go rigid in outrage. A wave of grief slammed into Harry from his Guardian and he reached out blindly, uncertain, hoping to comfort and not knowing how.

The voices seemed suddenly farther away; the homunculus was dismissive: “People are foolish;” Mustang's eyes narrowed: “Fools enough to let you profit from their pain and suffering.”

Harry took a deep breath and forcibly brought his attention back to the confrontation.

“You got me all wrong,” protested the Fuhrer genially. “To stop the human race from going to ruin I intervene and take the stone. By preventing its use, I figure myself one of God's guardian angels.”

Itachi's hand shot out and gripped Seifer's arm, hard, to prevent him from scoffing loudly. Scar's fists were so tight he was probably hurting himself.

“There's no such thing as God,” was saying the Colonel.

Itachi and Seifer moved in synch to cover their Summoner, some indefinable signal warning them that violence was about to be unleashed.

“We can't know that for sure; however...” That was the homunculus again, voice growing colder with every word: “devils do exist.”

He took a fighting stance, centring himself, and proclaimed grandly: “They're the alchemists who dare to get in my way!” With a soft swoosh, he bared his sword, raising it menacingly.

Mustang also quickly took a fighting stance, raising his glove and inadvertently letting the four spectators catch a good look of the simple, red Alchemic Circle embroidered on it.

For all his readiness, however, the homunculus was too quick: he threw the sword so fast none saw the movement clearly and the Colonel barely avoided being skewered by the blade, staring in shock at where it embedded itself in the wall with such astonishing force, it pierced a small crater in the plaster.

Mustang grimaced in dismay, and in the corridor, the four witnesses did the same.

Bradley wrenched it out with a grunt. “How unfortunate,” he commented tauntingly. “A quick swish of my sword changes the air currents, disrupting your precious alchemic reaction: how can you expect to manipulate the air composition if it's constantly in flux?”

He mock-saluted his opponent with his sword, then, far too fast, he launched a flurry of attacks; the Colonel gasped and jumped, and the unheeded spectators watched with bated breath: it was all Mustang could do to keep out of the blade's cutting edge.

Careful not to attract attention, the four remained in the dark hallway, following the duel with great interest.

First blood went to Bradley – a slash to Mustang's arm.

“Do we help him?” murmured Seifer, tense and vigilant. But Harry was distracted: his Rod was quivering with repressed energy and he could not figure out why. Was it something in the room… or in the combatants?

“My Ultimate Eye sees your alchemy at work!” proclaimed the homunculus, sword raised again, triumphant.

The Flame Alchemist had at last found his footing. He flicked out his hand, resolute and quick; an explosion rocked the walls.

Harry and his Guardians peered anxiously through the smoke, which parted quickly. Surrounded by small fires, whose twisting flames endured over the broken stone rubble, the bleeding Colonel was on his knees, panting with effort; before him, the unharmed homunculus still stood tall, his clothes in tatters but his powerful form untouched by fire or soot.

With a grimace of madness, he shook his ruined coat off, remaining in a short-sleeved black t-shirt under the suspenders of his military issue slacks, and ran an almost loving hand down the blade of his sword, his one eye glinting malevolently at the impassive Colonel as he snarled softly, readying himself for battle.

Cuts marred Mustang's face and he was breathing harshly, yet he was visibly refusing to give in to fatigue and pain.

Raising his arm again, another burst of flames enveloped the homunculus… to no avail.

Itachi calmly prodded Harry further back, away from the softly burning fires that seemed to have invaded the room, as the Führer called out from the flames: “Is my species of consequence to you now?”

The homunculus emerged through the fire, looking nowhere near human now: blackened and charred, unrecognisable, with his ouroboros glowing like burning ember in his eye. But even as he spoke, its human appearance was reconstructing.

Fury danced in the Flame Alchemist's eyes, drowning the hints of fear: teeth bared in a snarl, he staggered to his feet and backed away.

Lightning fast, the homunculus rushed him and skewered the Colonel, piercing his shoulder with the sword and holding him pinned to the wall without effort. Mustang let out an agonized scream.

A strange ring glinted on the homunculus' left middle finger and it caught Harry's eye like nothing else had so far. A gold ring inset with a square black stone… With a jolt, he realized that he had seen it – and the etching on it, a circle within a triangle, cut by a vertical line, confirmed it – before: in Dumbledore's collection of memories.

Could it be…? Had they really…? Was it possible... that they'd found another Horcrux, along with one of the homunculi?

His Rod vibrated strongly, the familiar hum sounding almost approving.

Distracted by the realization, the Summoner missed what the two fighters were saying and was only brought back from his whirling thoughts by Mustang's grief-filled cry: “This was the only way I could atone for the friend I didn't save!”

Sorrow richly coated his tone and Harry felt his esteem for the sophisticated Colonel grow.

The homunculus, on the other hand, was losing patience: “Well then by all means, let me help you with that. Give my best regards to General Hughes,” he snarled. Sadistically, he twisted the blade inside the wound.

Mustang screamed.

The four silent spectators took a step forward as one, intent on helping, but their movement was aborted by the unforeseen patter of small feet behind them.

Quite unexpectedly, a dark-haired child appeared at a run, barely faltering at catching sight of their concealed forms, before dismissing them as a trick of the light and running forth, a bag slung over his shoulder.

He stopped abruptly a step or two inside the room, taking in the fires, the destruction and the Führer pinning a man to the wall, with wide, guileless eyes.

“What's going on?” he asked innocently.

Pretending nothing was wrong, Bradley straightened, still holding the Colonel skewered onto his sword, and said urbanely: “Hello, son.”

“Son?!” whispered Harry, half-horrified.

“What is it with those _things_ thinking they've got families?” muttered Scar. “It's ridiculous!”

The Führer was, they acknowledged, pretty good at playing the loving father. He smiled at the child genially and gentled his voice, appearing misleadingly calm and even pleasant – a world apart from the wrathful creature of a moment before.

“Good news,” he reassured the child cheerfully. “I've got the rat.”

“Ooh!” The boy looked instantly relieved and proud of his 'father'. He smiled widely: “I'm sorry that I disobeyed you, father, but I just had to come back. I forgot something and I wanted to make sure that you're ok,” he said earnestly.

A chuckle, and the Fuhrer pushed himself up, leaving Mustang pinned to the wall without a care, before leaning down to smile at the child running up to him.

The Colonel was trying to say something, forcing it out through the pain, but no-one much listened…

Something was wrong.

The homunculus was leaning over the child, hands on his shoulders and… he wasn't moving. The fake paternal aura he'd put on was dissolving fast, rage building in him visibly, but he _wasn't moving_. At all. He was obviously struggling to manage and... couldn't.

“What the hell…?” muttered Seifer.

“Father, what's the matter?” asked the child, puzzled.

The homunculus spit out a few groans of effort and fury, but he still couldn't move.

Alarmed, the boy cried: “You look like you're hurt, what's wrong?”

“What's going on?” whispered Harry.

With effort, the homunculus hissed: “What have you done, you – _idiot_?” His composed, amiable tone had vanished, leaving only rage in its wake.

Shocked, the boy widened his big, brown eyes: “Uh… I just… I got it from your safe.” He motioned slightly to the bag he was carrying, tried to justify himself. “You said your life depended on it and I didn't want it to get hurt in the fire.”

He looked pleased with himself, expecting praise, but his 'father' quickly disabused of the notion.

With a roar of rage, his hands clenched around the child's throat. He squeezed.

With immense effort, Mustang pushed himself away from the wall, tearing the sword out of his shoulder, heedless of the blood that poured quickly out of the wound, determined to help the child: but it wasn't needed. Scar and Seifer had reacted at once, falling upon the creature before he could do too much damage.

Seifer's gunblade flashed through the air, cutting off Bradley's arms at the wrists neatly. With a powerful kick, which would have snapped a lesser creature's spine, Scar threw the homunculus away from the child, who crumbled in Seifer's arms, horrified eyes riveted on his father's cut hands falling from his neck.

Harry felt his heart clench at the shock and fear in the boy's features, the desperate betrayal in his voice: “F-fa… ther…!”

The stumps of the creature were already reforming, black hands pushing out, claw-like at first, shaping themselves slowly.

“You are foolish,” Bradley said, voice rough and low. “All of you. Even my own son.”

Ignoring the frightened sniffles of the boy, he climbed to his feet slowly, then turned, and half his face was a black, inhuman mask around the glowing red ouroboros in his pupil.

“Throw it away!” he barked and the terrified boy obeyed at once, before Seifer could stop him: the bag sailed through the air and the Guardian grasped futilely at it, cursing.

As soon as the bag landed in a corner, the homunculus lunged at the petrified child, his face a mask of hatred. Scar wordlessly intercepted the blow and engaged him.

The child stumbled back from Seifer in painful shock: “Father!” he cried out, unable – unwilling – to understand.

“Shut up, worthless human! I will kill you!”

With a snarl, the homunculus lunged again, only to be met once more by Scar's roundabout kick. He turned on the Ishvalan ferociously, mouth deformed in a rictus of rage.

Bleeding and hurt, Mustang seemed to be paralysed with shock, eyeing the battle and the strangers warily.

Soldiers came pounding down a corridor all of a sudden and before anyone could react, Bradley barked out to 'take down the intruders'. Steadied by their General's orders, the newly arrived instantly opened fire – in a swirl of cloth, Itachi had Harry out of the way and shielded by his own body.

Fire blazed from Seifer's hand, engulfing the racing bullets.

“I'll handle them! Stay out of my way!” shouted Seifer and pushed the frightened child, whom he'd dragged out of the burning room, towards Harry.

Scar was still fighting.

Harry nodded, decided. Gently, he pushed the shell-shocked child into Itachi's arms, wincing as the pale and gasping boy turned tear-filled eyes on him in incomprehension and unconsciously clutched more tightly at his blue tunic.

“Itachi, take the child away,” Harry ordered quietly but steadily.

The Guardian stiffened in disapproval and shot him a dark glare, but as usual, obeyed nonetheless and in an instant, they were gone, probably to some safe corner Itachi had previously scouted as a matter of habit.

Harry did not worry. Instead, he swiftly skittered to the discarded bag and then made his way to the wary-looking Colonel, running half-crouched, almost unnoticed, deftly dodging the raining blows and roaring flames that filled the room.

“The Flame Alchemist?” he asked, by way of getting the man's attention.

The Colonel's focus snapped to him. His black eyes burned with uncertainty and determination and faint horror and overwhelming ambition.

Harry met them fearlessly and nodded in acknowledgement of the other's strength of will.

He stuck a hand out, holding the bag to the State Alchemist: “In order to defeat a Homunculus for good, the piece of their body that anchors them must be destroyed. It is their greatest weakness, for it paralyses them if they're exposed to it, but it is also their linchpin to existence. You must destroy this... and you'll be able to 'kill' it. Unfortunately, normal means will not be enough...”

The Colonel's gaze sharpened and he nodded back, snatching the bag away. He rose to his feet slowly, utter determination in every line of his body, and took out the skull within it, holding it high. Painstakingly, he drew the familiar Alchemic Circle on the back of his raised hand, using his own blood.

“My flames are not 'normal'. It will pose no problems,” he said to Harry, coolly and confidently.

The Summoner smiled grimly: “Then I shall leave things to you.”

He ran back out of the room, narrowly avoiding blows from the still ongoing fight.

Seifer was laughing loudly outside in the narrow hallway, clearly having fun. His gun was a red flash, like a tongue of fire cutting down uniformed men and women and shielding him from their bullets with ease.

Harry took a deep breath and bellowed: “We're leaving!”

Scar disengaged with smooth easiness and was beside him in a handful of seconds, mindless of the outraged yells of his foe.

Seifer threw a Quake that he had clearly kept in store for the opportune moment and then twisted around them, covering their escape with a couple low-level Fires.

The homunculus burst out of the room, trying to stop Scar still: “Come back and DIE, Ishvalan!”

“No, Bradley!” the surprisingly chilling voice of the Flame Alchemist cut through the raging inferno like an icy wind, fuelling the flames with the cold rage it carried: “It is YOUR time to die!”

An explosion the likes of which is rarely seen engulfed everything.

Soldiers screamed, whether in fear or because caught up in it, it was impossible to tell. Summoner and Guardians backed away with dismayed cries.

“This way,” Itachi's calm voice directed them.

They swivelled to see him standing in a nearby room, as composed as ever, though the slight hint of a frown was enough to tell Harry that his Guardian was severely annoyed. The child was slung over his shoulder, having succumbed to unconsciousness.

“I scouted an escape route. Please hurry,” he said in his polite monotone.

They ran.

Glancing back, Harry caught one last sight of the Flame Alchemist, tall and proud before the snarling, frozen Führer.

Blindingly bright flames enveloped the homunculus, stuck in place by the one thing with the power to halt him: his own human remains; through the screams of rage and pain, the Colonel stood still, forcing himself to hold the skull up and the alchemic reaction active. Orange rays of light poured up from his hand, making it glow like a tiny miniature sun, and shadows danced over his face, cast by the dancing flames. He never wavered.

An eerie scream rose from within the flames; dense, black smoke hovered for a long moment, attempting to gain form, and was brutally dispersed, even as the homunculus started to melt.

That was all the confirmation he needed, and Harry couldn't stop his triumphant grin. Another Horcrux down!

A gloved hand on his shoulder dragged him forward, away from the spreading fire.

The heat was starting to be overwhelming. Scar took the child to leave Itachi's hands free, hoping his Elemental Techniques could control the flames, but the water the ninja conjured was barely strong enough to put out the smaller fires and even Seifer's long-hoarded Blizzards proved awkwardly weak.

It looked like the Flame Alchemist hadn't boasted in vain: his flames weren't fazed by anything they could throw at them.

“Run!” bellowed Scar at the top of his lungs.

Smoke was invading the space above their heads; the heat could very well be weakening the concrete, slowly turning the basement into a death trap; but Itachi led them with surety.

A corridor, then another, into a storage room and out again and they were on another service stair, running up towards the main floor and fresh air and-- more soldiers.

Harry half-groaned, even as he started twirling his Rod, Seifer mimicking him: Protects flared briefly blue around them.

“Look!” exclaimed Scar urgently. He pointed to the right, where surprisingly, a Window fluttered – hanging on a wall like a very unusual picture, about two meters from the floor.

“We don't know if it leads back to our starting point,” warned Itachi calmly. “It could be a passage to a different world altogether.”

The soldiers started shooting at them, bullets ricocheting all around them, grazing their magical shields.

“Forget that!” shouted Harry. “Let's just get out of here!”

That was all it took.

Scar, the child still held securely, took off at a fast run, leapt horizontally on the wall, gathering momentum, ricocheted against the opposite wall and dove through the opening in mid-arir head first, twisting to cushion his eventual landing with his back.

Itachi grabbed Harry, who instinctively clutched his shoulders tightly, and suddenly they were airborne, chackra-touching the ceiling to reverse their momentum and be flung out of the raging inferno, Seifer hot on their heels, albeit much less gracefully.

They fell to the ground on the other side, which was much nearer in the other world: they narrowly avoided falling heavily upon each other.

Harry shivered: after the fire, the cool air of the sunset here felt positively chilly.

Before he could gather his bearings, Itachi's voice – unexpectedly trembling – stuttered: “Little Brother?”


End file.
